


Burn the World

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Series: Fire, Ashes, Dreams [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Because You Can't Consent If You've Been That Brainwashed, Bucky's POV, Character Study, Dubious Consent, Love/Hate, Mass Destruction, Multi, No Fluff, Pansexual Bucky Barnes, Period Typical Sexism Racism and Homophobia, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sexual Content, Terrorism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 104,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I am Bucky Barnes. I am not Bucky Barnes.<br/>I am the Winter Soldier. I am not the Winter Soldier.<br/>Am I either? Neither? Both?' </p><p>A story of memory, identity, love, and carnage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an odd duck.  
> This really isn't a feels fic, but it's not entirely action either. It's violent as hell, but it's also about a man trying to reclaim his identity in the midst of seemingly never ending chaos. Almost everyone makes really terrible decisions, innocent people are murdered, and nobody's forgiven for past misdeeds.  
> The story touches on things like WW2 and the Holocaust. The people living in the 1920s-40s don't exactly have enlightened attitudes towards women or minorities and use the language reflecting that. Cities get leveled, because that's what happens when people with godlike powers fight one another, and there may or may not be consequences for that. I don't believe that sex would heal decades worth of HYDRA conditioning (though this isn't a knock against people writing those stories, I devour them gladly and love all of you for writing and/or enjoying them), and I don't promise anyone a happy ending. I'm certainly not promising a sad ending either. I'm just saying--it may not be what you expect, but I think it's the right ending. For now, at least.  
> All that being said, I really hope you give this story a shot. Because yes--this is a love story. With these two, it will ALWAYS be a love story.

PART ONE: SAKHALIN

_It’s been three days in a row and I know what he’s going to say._

_“Cops and robbers.”_

_I groan, faking like it bothers me. “C’mon!”_

_He gets this look on his face like he knows he’s being selfish, and I hate it when he looks like that because I don’t care if we play the same thing again, but I like it too because I love razzing him. “Please?”_

_I stand here, rolling my eyes. I catch sight of some other guys our age at the end of the block. They’re doing something—I see one of them pretend to swing a bat, and the way he twists his foot into the ground, swinging from the left, I know he’s pretending to be Zack Wheat. I bet you anything they’re talking about the game last night, I bet he went, and I do want to go over there. I do. I get to go to games twice a season and that’s all, because we don’t have any money, only that’s old news because no one around here has money. I want to know how the game really was, how it smelled and looked and sounded, not just how the guy on the radio told it. I could go over. I could find out._

_I don’t._

_“Fine,” I sigh, and he grins, a smile that’s almost too big for his face. Everything’s too big for him. His clothes, his shoes—even his head is too big for his body. Just to mess with the kid, I say, “This time I get to be the copper.”_

_His face falls. He can be such a sap sometimes. I’m eight and he’s seven and he should know better, he should know that I’m just teasing because I always give him his way unless he’s being stupid, unless he’s doing something he shouldn’t and the dummy is going to hurt himself. He doesn’t catch on, though. He’s so used to being told no, what he can’t do, that he forgets I’m always telling him yes._

_“Oh—come on, Bucky,” he pleads. “Please?”_

_“Applesauce! You’re always the copper,” I reply. “Or you’re the cowboy and I’m the Indian. Or you’re the soldier, and I’m the kraut. It’s my turn to be the copper.”_

_He’s reluctant, but I know what he’s going to say. Because he’s predictable. I always know exactly what he’s going to do. People think he’s weak because of everything else, but they don’t get him. I get him. Nobody else understands that it’s simple, knowing exactly what he’ll do._

_He does what I know he will. He smiles, and says, “You’re right. Sorry—it’s your turn to be the good guy.”_

_And I do what I’ll always do._

_I give him a quick shove, not enough to hurt him, just to startle him, and take off running. “Gotcha! You’ll never get me alive, copper!”_

_I hear him laughing, and his fast little breaths as he comes after me, as I run slow enough so he can keep pace. He yells that I’m under arrest, and I point a finger gun back at him._

_It’s just the way it is. He’s always the good guy. That’s okay._

_I don’t have a problem being the bad guy._

 

 

_Status._

            Floating.

            Am I—

            Yes. I am floating.

            I hit something hard enough to rattle my bones and now I am—not quite awake. Sluggish. I’m aware of striking a surface, front and back, only it’s through a veil.

            Cryo. I am always foggy when I come out of cryo.

            _Status_.

            Something has gone wrong. I am in the cryo chamber. I’m wet and cold and I think I’m on my back. They have never woken me before on my back. I am always upright, and people grab me and keep me on my feet until I am able to acclimate to my surroundings.

            I am on my back and I’ve just smacked my head hard enough to do away with some of the mist that’s my brain. Obviously something is wrong.

            I relax.

            _Status_.

            I am in several inches of cold liquid. They have brought me out of cryo, but they haven’t done it correctly. My body temperature is supposed to be raised. I have to concentrate not to let my teeth chatter. I reach out with the flesh hand to find the side of the chamber. I lay my hand flat against it, and feel the vibrations.

            Moving. Wherever I am is mobile. It’s difficult to ascertain further details on that front until I’ve woken more.

            I cannot see. This is normal. When I leave cryo, I’m initially blind. It lasts anywhere from a half hour to six hours, depending on how long I’ve hibernated.

            I hear voices.

            They are muffled through the chamber, but I catch scraps of words. _Approach. Alert. Wheels up._ I understand what they’re saying but I’m not sure what language it is. It’s all still fuzzy and damp. Their speech is terse and fast.

            We are mobile and I’ve been woken early and wrong and they speak with an undercurrent of strain. We are obviously under attack.

            I do not think they are friendly.

            I’ve come out of cryo…I cannot remember how many times. It seems like a lot. Enough that I know to trust my instincts when I wake. I know what’s supposed to happen, and what’s supposed to happen obviously hasn’t, so whoever is on the other side of the chamber is not my ally.

            I cannot tell if they know I’ve woken. The voices are not directly on the other side of the chamber. They are clustered to my left, perhaps a metre or more away.

            I inhale as the chamber bounces—which is not correct. It should not be correct. The chamber weighs…no. Too early. I cannot remember the specifications of the chamber. I’ll be working at reduced capacity until the cryo fog wears off.

            Frustration.

            No. Stop.

            Frustration is not helpful. I must work with what I have. That’s what I’ve always done. That is how I was trained.

            The voices raise not in panic, but in determination and maybe anger, which tells me that they are not civilians. I don’t know why civilians would kidnap me, unless it was for scientific purposes, but it’s good to eliminate possibilities. I’ll have to be prepared for when I escape.

            My allies must be coming for me. That’s why we are under attack. No.

            No, I have no allies.

            My insides do a strange thing. It feels like nausea, but it’s not a result of physical distress.

            Ah. Worry. That’s not helpful either.

            I have no allies. Whoever is coming for me wants me for the same reason as the people closest to me now. They want to master me or destroy me. I’m not interested in complying with either.

            Think.

            _Status_.

            I feel for the safety release. It’s there for exactly this contingency. If I am taken while in cryo, my directive is to escape confinement, terminate my captors, and return to an extraction point.

            I no longer have a directive.

            There’s that sick feeling again. I have to ignore it. I’ve been woken from cryo incorrectly. Of course I will be confused. I know what I must do. Assess the situation—in progress—terminate my captors, escape. Simple.

            Except not so simple, because the safety release isn’t there.

            Unacceptable.

            I run my flesh hand all up and down the side of the right hand side of the chamber. There’s nothing. It’s slick and smooth and unfamiliar.

            This isn’t _my_ cryo chamber.

            Sick feeling.

            _Status_.

            I flex my metal hand. It feels peculiar. That probably has something to do with being submerged in what feels like sub-zero temperatures.

            I inhale through my nose. No. It doesn’t smell like my chamber either. The chemicals are unfamiliar. Someone has taken me, and put me in a new chamber, and I have no idea what is going on.

            Not productive. I know what’s going on—I’m in the wrong chamber with enemies outside me and we’re being attacked. I’ve done more with less.

            My metal hand isn’t going to be much use right now. I’m still too cloudy to access it like I should, and it’s never much good after being in the cold for so long without immediate conditioning. So I have to use my flesh.

            I explore my surroundings with minimal movement. My legs are free. I can move my feet, though there seems to be a recess at the bottom of the chamber. Likely to stand in. I can feel that I’m naked. Not ideal when I’m already this chill, but I’ll make do. There is a thick, sturdy strap around my chest, holding me in place. Is it a problem?

            I test it out with my fingertips. Not a problem—I feel where it fastens. I leave it for the moment, because the chamber lifts off whatever surface it’s on again, and falls back down with a hard _thump_. Every time, it’s never more than an inch. Until I can figure out what I’m going to do, safety first.

            Putting my palm to the door above me, I map it out. Flat again. My chamber is all bumps and cords and rivets. This thing is unnervingly smooth. Like I’m on the inside of an egg.

            There we go. There’s an observation window. They like to be able to look at me when I’m inside. I’m not sure why. I’ve seen the pictures of what I look like in cryo. It’s just my head, and frost.

            I gently rub the tip of my middle finger against a small section of it. Condensation. The thing is fogged over, like my brain. They can’t see in. They don’t know I’m awake.

            I can hear the engine now that I’m more lucid. We’re in a vehicle. I doubt it’s a train, because we wouldn’t be moving up and down with every hit. We’d just derail. And there’s not the emptiness of flight with its occasional bobs. No, we must be in a vehicle. A van, maybe, or a cargo truck?  

            This time I catch a slightly frantic voice report, “Wheels up in fifteen minutes!”

            They intend to have me on a plane in fifteen minutes. I find that reassuring. At least now I have a deadline. Because there is no way I am letting them put me on a flight to anywhere.

            Wait. Since when do I need to be reassured?

            Unimportant. I can evaluate that later.

            I tense and release my muscles, starting at the toes and working all the way up to my head. It is not ideal—distantly, I recall having to fight one other time when I had just emerged from cryo, and a man planted a knife in my chest that on any other day would have been easily avoided. Oh well. Things are tough all over.

            The arm feels strange. I open and close the fingers a few times to make sure that it will at least obey. It does what I want it to, but I can’t shake the impression that something is off about it.

            It’s just the cryo daze. It’s fine.

            I spend a few minutes stretching as the men—I only hear men—try not to get too worked up. One of them is more panicked than the others. I get the impression that he’s in charge. Good. Easier.

            My captors are discussing the people attacking the vehicle. Apparently they’re not falling back. They’re advancing.

            I hear a hard, metallic _clang_ and the man in charge yelps. Like I said—it’s always easier when the guy in charge is ready to cut and run.

            They are distracted and on edge. I suppose this is as good a time as any.

            Carefully, I undo the strap holding me down. I push it over to my left side, and I take a nice deep breath. That’s something I’ve been taught too. The importance of breathing. Lots of soldiers panic and somehow bypass the body’s autonomic systems. Idiots. If you remember to breathe—that’s the most important thing.

            Also, it’s nice to take a full breath after being stuck in cryo for months or years. I won’t tell anyone that, though. I’m not supposed to think things like that.

            I curl the metal fingers a few times, trying to figure out why they feel so—different.

            Not enough time.

            I reach up, and tap the window. Two fold purpose—figure out what it’s made of, and to get someone’s attention.

            It’s not glass, it’s plastic.

            And I hear someone directly above me say, “Did you hear that—“

            I slam the arm right through the window and I grab his head and squeeze.

            It collapses under my grip rather suddenly.

            Ah. Okay.

            It’s not _my_ arm. That’s why it feels different. My hand didn’t have the kind of fine motor coordination that this one does. It’s just as strong, but lighter. Materials?

            _Status_.

            Right. I’m busy.

            There’s screaming, and I hear the sound of guns being drawn, and the guy in command yells, “No! Orders are to bring the asset in alive—“

            He should _not_ have let me hear that I have such an advantage.

            Whatever the arm’s made of, it rips through metal just as easily as the old one. I yank the door off the chamber and hurl it in the direction of where the voices were clustered. There’s the sound of metal on metal and of metal on flesh and a wet squishy sound and yelp that tells me I hurt someone but didn’t kill them.

            I push myself out of the chamber to my right, and my legs collapse under me immediately. _The flesh is weak_ , he told me, over and over again, _the flesh is weak_ —

            I don’t know why, but thinking that makes it really easy to grab the first man who comes at me and flip him over and break his back over my knee. I don’t like this—I don’t like it, I don’t like being out of cryo so fast and I’m wet and I’m cold and people are screaming—

            I’m panicking. This is panicking.

            Breathe. Have to breathe.

            Three people left. I can tell by the voices and the sounds their boots make on the floor. I’m separated from them by the chamber, and now that I’m out I can appraise my surroundings.

            Vehicle. Large—yes, it’s a cargo truck and we are in the back. I grab the first thing I can find and throw it, just to hear how far it goes, then I do it behind me as well. We’re in a space approximately two and a half metres across and six metres long. I hear the engine, I hear someone squawking through a headset, and I hear the sound of gunfire outside.

            “Tranquilize him—tranquilize him—“

            No, that won’t be happening.

            My legs aren’t worth much right now but this new arm does exactly what I need without requiring the usual post cryo repair. I grab the side of the chamber and vault myself over it, snatching the first human I find and taking him down with me. He squeals, and I hear the man furthest from me doing something with his weapon, and the man in charge says frantically, “No guns—our orders are—“

            I toss the guy I’ve got at the man in charge, hearing them go flying back against the wall. I have to scramble my feet, and I lose precious seconds, but I manage to get as far as the one with the gun, crashing into his legs. He’s smaller than me, a lot smaller. Doesn’t mean he’s not tough. He hits me across the head with his weapon—ow—and the way his hands are on it I can tell it’s a submachine gun.

            I grab it with the flesh hand and drive it back into his face. I hear something break, and I don’t waste any time. He’s got the gun on a strap. I tear through it with my metal fingers and take the gun for my own as the other two are trying to get away, the man in charge still babbling about tranquilizing me. People often get caught in loops like that when they’re afraid.

            My hands know this gun. My training allows for satisfaction, and there is something extremely satisfying about having this gun in my hands. Like I’ve known it for decades, like it’s a piece of me.

            I hit the metal bar down towards the trigger guard, taking it out of safety, and spray rounds in the direction of the two men trying to escape me, pausing after two seconds to see if I’ve eliminated my targets.

            It’s gone fairly quiet in here, except for some gurgling.

            _Status_.

            We’re still moving. I have to disable the driver. There’s gunfire tapping away outside. It’s coming from the cab, and it’s coming from another vehicle beside us. I am in the middle of a firefight.

            Middle of a firefight, naked, legs unsteady, head a mess, an arm I’m not used to, blind, no idea where I am or what’s going on.

            It could definitely be worse.

            I’m attacked from behind.

            The man whose nose I broke isn’t taking it well. He latches onto me with his whole body, and he jams his thumbs into my eyes. I can’t see right now, but I don’t intend to be blind for the rest of my life.

            The truck rocks us both, and I am disoriented.

            I need my eyes. I need to deal with this.

            I grab his left wrist with my metal hand and I crush it. Again, the fine motor control is definitely more advanced than the old arm. This is an excellent tool. I wonder when this happened. Am I just not used to it? It must be new. Even when I’m wiped, muscle and operational memory remains, and I am not used to this arm. I like it, though.

            He screeches right into my ear, but he doesn’t get his claws off my face, so I take him by the left arm. I’m going to hurl him over my head, only there’s a _boom_ and the world goes sideways.

            The truck veers.

            We rock. We rock _hard_.

            And tip.

            Up—up up up—

            Protect the asset. Protect the asset.

            I make myself small, protecting my head with my metal arm as we roll. Everything around me is crashing and spinning and it’s so _fast_ but I know what’s happening. I know what’s happening.

            God, what’s happening?

            _STATUS._

            We are crashing. Whoever else wants me has taken out the driver, and the vehicle has rolled and I am in the back as everything flies around. A body hits me, and then something smashes into my head, and then I strike the ground as we rock once more, before falling back. The vehicle rests.

            Now it’s very quiet.

            I lay here, and I take three breaths. I allow myself that much time, even though it’s a luxury, because this has all been very confusing and I don’t really care for any of it. One…two…three.

            There’s a groan. I can hear from the pitch of the voice that it’s the man who spider monkeyed on my back and tried to gouge out my eyes. I hear his hand patting out across the ground, between the two of us.

            I have a fairly good guess what he’s trying to reach.

            I seem to be all right. There will definitely be contusions, but I can breathe well enough and there’s no major pains. I’ve sustained minimal damage. Full recovery will be under one day.

            Before he can, I put out my hand and pick up the gun. This satisfying gun. I could use it on him, but no. I’ll need it in a few minutes and I should conserve ammunition.

            Instead I crawl over to him, only a metre or so. He knows I’m coming, and he starts murmuring, “Monster. You’re a monster. Monster.”

            I hit him hard enough this time that it’s not just his nose that breaks.

            That done, I test my body. Legs shaky, but I manage to push myself up. Roll my shoulders. Big, big breath—ribs definitely not broken.

            I hear voices.

            Here we go again.

            I try and move back from the door, but I meet an obstacle immediately. There’s something in my way. Of course there is. The whole truck tipped over, and I have no idea if I’m standing on the wall or the ceiling right now.

            They’re coming. I have to get to a better position. If I wasn’t blind right now—

            No. You don’t think like that.

            I keep the gun aimed at the door, feeling with the back of my foot and leg for whatever is behind me. The chamber. I can take cover behind it, hopefully.

            I move backwards, and almost immediately my feet meet resistance and my weak legs give up on me and I fall.

            Frustration.

            I’ve fallen on bodies. The voices are so close now that I can hear words, and there’s that sick feeling again—

            No. No, it’s not worry. It’s something else. One of the voices is making my insides swoop and I don’t know why and I hate this because it’s unfamiliar. No. I don’t like this. I don’t like this.

            No time left. I extend the stock of the gun, putting it back against my shoulder. I lean against the chamber, crouching on top of the bodies, and aim at the door.

            Someone says loudly, “Anybody left alive in there, let me suggest that you put your weapons down, and your hands up. No need for this to get any uglier than it already has.”

            I know that voice. It sets my teeth on edge. I slip my finger around the trigger, metal hand protectively on the magazine.

            That other voice says something, and I have to close my eyes against it. I don’t like the first man’s voice—it makes me annoyed—but the other guy, something about the sound of him makes my insides churn. That’s not what’s supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to feel like that.

            There’s a metallic snap. They’ve broken whatever lock was on the door.

            “You’ve got three seconds before we open this door, and we have got a _hell_ of a lot of firepower out here. Think real careful about what you want to do here. One. Two.”

            The door rips open, and I hold down the trigger and just move the gun as steadily as I can from left to right. I can’t remember the name of the weapon I’m holding, but I know that most people can effectively fire 100 rounds from it a minute. I know I am qualified to fire 300.

            That would be a waste of ammunition, though.

            I loosen my finger from the trigger after three seconds, and listen. He was lying. There’s no one else out there, and I doubt they have much in the way of weapons. Otherwise someone would be firing back at me.

            I raise the gun again when someone says, “Buck?”

            I adjust the stock against my flesh shoulder, finding the source of the voice. They’re under the truck. I hear two men breathing heavily. They must be fast to have avoided getting shot. That’s fine. I’m fast too.

            I’d fire again, but the same person says, “Hey pal. It’s me.”

            Sick feeling.

            I don’t understand. No one uses that voice with me. It’s not a voice for orders or fear. It’s….

            What the hell is it?

            “Bucky? It’s just me and Sam. I’m gonna stand up now.” I shift quickly, and I’m not quiet. There’s a pause, and the guy says, “I’m gonna stand up nice and slow, buddy, and you’re not going to shoot me. I don’t think you’d feel too good about shooting me, pal.”

            The other man, the one who lied about their firepower, mutters, “He felt fine about it the first time.”

            I hear movement. He’s standing up. That’s not smart. I’ll shoot him. He has to know that I’ll shoot him.

            I’m not sure why I don’t.

            I point the gun right at him, where I can hear him breathing. When he speaks again, though, his voice is steady. Unafraid. I don’t understand. “Hey, Buck. I’m not armed. See? Not armed.”

            My head hurts.

            It gets like this sometimes. When a memory is trying to come in through a crack. My brain has been broken open so many times. Again and again and again. Sometimes there’s cracks.

            I don’t like this.

            Why is he speaking so softly? No one talks to me like that. “Bucky? Can you hear me?”

            “I can’t see,” I reply.

            Why did I do that? Why in the hell would I tell him I’m at a disadvantage? What is _wrong_ with me? There has been a malfunction. I have been compromised. There has been a malfunction.

            “You’ve still got that muzzle pointed in the right direction, though. Or wrong direction, if you’re on my end of it.”

            My head hurts.

            “Buck? Do you remember me? Do you know who I am?”

            It comes in through a crack, and it _hurts_.

            _Didn’t you used to be smaller?_

I have lowered the gun an inch before I realize what I’m doing. I don’t like this.

            Wait.

            “Steve?”

            A relieved sigh. “Hey, Buck.”

            I’m filling with cracks. Coney Island. Zemo. The apartment. Weapon. Not a weapon.

            I’m afraid.

            I have a hand to my forehead, and I hear the other guy, who must have stood up too, exclaim, “Holy shit.”

            Sam. That’s Sam.

            And Steve.

            I can barely think because my head is full of knives, but that’s not useful and I need to be useful. I need to know my status. “Did everything…get fixed?”

            Nobody says anything for a moment.

            “Not exactly,” says Steve.

            My head is full, and I cannot breathe.


	2. New Arm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here, huh? Awesome. Thanks to everyone who bookmarked and left kudos yesterday. I'm actually making a heart shape with my hands right now. As I post this story that has maximum bloodshed. Whatever, we're all complicated.

My sight starts coming back a half hour later. It doesn’t help that it’s night and we’re driving without the headlights on. The outside is blurry and the road is bumpy and my head is _killing_ me.

            I haven’t been able to say much since we left the wreckage. They got me in some clothes—whose, I don’t know, but they’re too small, and I’m wearing a jacket that smells like one of them but I can’t figure out which one. All I could do was put my head in my hands to try and hold in all the thoughts. I told them to be quiet, and Sam wanted to argue—of course Sam wanted to argue—but Steve said, “Sure thing, Buck.” He’s kept Sam from speaking much.

            My body wants to shiver. I’m not used to that. Usually I’m warm after cryo. They always make sure I’m warm. But this car is cold. It’s not that typically I’d mind. I go where I need to, do what I need to, regardless of temperature. This, though—is making me upset.

            I don’t get upset. That’s not how I’ve been trained.

            I am _not_ the Winter Soldier. I need to remind myself. I’m no longer the Winter Soldier.

            Yeah—let me keep reminding my brain and body of that after seventy years, and we’ll see how far I get.

            I wipe my flesh hand over my face, trying to cling to the present. Not 1991, or 1944 or 2013 or anything else. Right now. We are in a car, travelling fast away from people who wanted to use me.

            The asset. Someone wanted a super soldier of their very own.

            Their voices. What language were they speaking in? Was it Korean? I think it might have been Korean. Wait, I know Korean?

            God _damn_ it. My head is overflowing right now.

            I must protect myself. That is the top priority in a world where I am without a mission. Self-preservation is the whole of the law. I think. I don’t know.

            Fuck.

            I lower my hands from my face and say quietly, “Okay,” if only because I don’t know what else to do.

            The shape that is Steve raises his head a little, looking at me in the rear view mirror. “How you doing, Buck?”

            “Head hurts.”

            “Did you hit it?” he asks, and I hear the guilt in his voice. “We weren’t trying to wreck the truck, we were just trying to take out the driver. Didn’t work so well.”

            “Worked great,” says Sam. “Took out the bad guys, rescued—well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say the good guy—“

            “Sam.”

            “All in all, let’s just call this a success.” He sounds tired. Snappish. He keeps touching his own head, making little hissing noises, to the point where Steve actually reaches over to get him to stop and Sam smacks his hand.

            I rub the butt of my palm against my forehead, trying to reach the pain inside. It won’t work, and I’m not sure why I’m doing it, but I don’t stop. “Year?”

            “Still 2016, Buck,” Steve replies.

            “Location?”

            “Good question.”

            I look up, because I can tell that they legitimately do not know. Either of them. “Explain,” I demand, and it’s the Winter Soldier’s voice that emerges.

            There’s a pause. I think it’s because I sounded like the soldier instead of the man he wishes I was. I don’t know if I’m either or neither or both.

            Steve answers, “Guidance on the jet was blown about twenty minutes before we crashed. We knew we were coming down near the sea, but where we actually landed, I guess we’ll be surprised. It’s not like there’s much out here in the way of road signs.” He raises his shoulders. “We needed to get out of Wakanda. We’d—well, let’s say that we overstayed our welcome. We were travelling to a secure base in Japan—“

            That clears some of the cobwebs. I look at him in disbelief as he continues to speak but he doesn’t stop because I know I don’t have much in the way of affect these days. They shock you enough times, your face stops letting people know what you’re thinking unless you really want them to.

            “But we started to hit resistance. It shouldn’t have happened like that.” Steve’s voice lowers, seemingly with disappointment. “He said it was safe.”

            Sam sighs. “How safe has it been for anybody the last month?”

            “Japan?” I say. The fact that my abductors were Korean makes a hell of a lot more sense now.

            “We were trying to cross southern Asia, but we hit drones that pushed us northeast earlier than expected, until that turned into jets on our tail. It ended up being less about following the flight path and more about not getting killed—“

            “Japan,” I repeat. “You’re telling me—you took me within a thousand kilometres of North Korea.”

            “Why?”

            “Lemme guess,” Sam yawns. “You don’t have many friends in North Korea.” He touches the top of his head again.

            “No. I don’t.”

            Steve says, “T’Challa promised us the flight path was secure, that no one knew—“

            “Location?” I ask again. “Can we verify location?”

            They can’t be this stupid. They honestly can’t.

            But I see Steve pull a phone from his pocket. A phone. I know I just woke up from cryo, and my brain is obviously not working as it should, but I was certain that when I read this guy’s file, it said something about ‘master tactician.’

            He says, “Uh—Primorsky Krai.” He coughs. “Not too far from Vladivostok.”

            Sam says, “We’re _what_?” at the same moment I request, “Do you mind if I have a look at that?”

            Steve passes it back to me as Sam exclaims, “We’re in _Russia_? You’re telling me that we crashed in Russia? With him. We’re in Russia with the Winter Soldier.”

            I bring the phone close up to my eyes, studying the map. It’s bright enough that I can see it. I figure out where we are, then I crush the phone with my metal hand.

            Sam says, horrified, “He did not just do that.” I open up the door, tossing the remnants of the poisonous piece of technology out into—snow. Great. Winter in eastern Russia. There’s something I always wanted to revisit. “Steve, tell me he did not just do that.”

            Steve doesn’t do anything for a moment. “Buck,” he says, voice calm, “that was a secure line. Our only way of reaching T’Challa. It fed directly to his satellite, and his alone.”

            “Obviously it didn’t,” I reply, and I push my greasy, damp hair back from my face. “It was compromised. Stop the car.”

            “Jesus Mary and Joseph,” Sam mutters. “We are completely cut off. I’m about six seconds from putting on my wings and getting the hell out of Dodge.”

            “Stop the car,” I say again. Then, so he knows I mean it, I say, “Please.”

            Steve slows the vehicle, then stops.

            I climb out of the car. My body aches slightly, but that’s all. The head is getting better, if only because I know what to do now. I’m always better when I have a mission. I open Sam’s door, then say, “Back seat.”

            “Beg your pardon—“

            I start to reach for him with the metal arm, and Steve says sharply, “Bucky.”

            I stop.

            Huh.

            “Sam,” Steve murmurs.

            Sam glances at him, then begins muttering under his breath. He pushes past me, and gets into the back, slamming the door after himself.

            I get inside, closing the door, and put on my seatbelt. “There’s a road five kilometres north of here. We have to get there quickly. When we do, turn east. We’ll take it to the coast.”

            Steve takes the car out of park, and puts a heavy foot on the gas. “Got a plan?”

            “Yeah. Get as far from here as possible before this becomes a war zone.” I point my metal thumb back over my shoulder. “North Korea just made an incursion on Russian soil to try and capture me. I’m not going to be overly shocked if someone sets off a nuke here in a couple of hours.”

            “Might explain those planes coming in from the north.”

            My eyes aren’t clear enough yet to see anything but black sky. “Five kilometres, north. _Now_.”

            He puts his foot all the way down.

 

I say very little for the next hour. Whenever we reach a juncture, Steve asks where we need to go, and I tell him.

            Sam drifts off. I hear him start to snore from the back seat.

            My eyesight comes back fully. Like Steve, I see fairly well in the dark. We’re on some of the worst roads the country has to offer, and we’re probably the only two people qualified to drive on them without night vision goggles. The snow isn’t making things easier. I’m taking us down the old roads, and they don’t get plowed much.

            That’s fine. Means we’re away from people, and that means safer.

            Once I can see, I assess their status. Sam has a gash in his head, and he has the pallor of someone who needs food and sleep and possibly reconditioning. He’s obviously the more injured of the two. I’m wearing Steve’s jacket, so I can see that his large arms are bruised, and there’s a scratch over his right eye. Knowing his physiology, he’ll be completely healed by tomorrow.

            I shrug out of the jacket. It’s dark and thick and I’m going to be displeased when I have to give it back. Steve glances at me, but doesn’t say anything. I pay very little attention to him. I want to look at the new arm.

            It is a piece of _work_. Christ. The last one was covered in small sheets of metal and my fingers were thick. It didn’t take much and you could see the gears working. But this thing—it’s like my arm is covered in small, shiny scales, uniform from top to bottom save my fingers, when the scales become much smaller, and then end in solid fingertips. It’s smaller than the old arm. Only larger than the flesh limb by a fraction. The weight throws me a little—it’s lighter than my previous arm, but I know it still packs a wallop. After all, I crushed a guy’s head with it earlier.

            I extend it, and flex everything I can. There are so many points of articulation. I can twist my wrist, curl my fingers. I test it by seeing if it can pluck out some of my hair. My old hand would have torn out a patch; the new one takes maybe three or four.

            I can detect pressure and temperature changes in it, like the old one. The cold doesn’t seem to effect it. No post cryo repair necessary.

            I remember that a long time ago, I was a welder, and I was good at my work.

            I really, _really_ like this arm.

            “When did this happen?” I inquire.

            “It was attached five days ago,” Steve says in a hushed voice. I don’t know why he’s being quiet, but then I realize he doesn’t want to wake Sam. “I did some work for T’Challa, accrued some favours, and his people came up with it. There was supposed to be more—synthetic skin to make it a little less obvious—but when we decided to leave Wakanda, we had to go with what was finished.”

            “Was—I out of cryo?”

            “Yeah. They kept you under, though, then put you back in. I, uh—I went ahead and made that call for you. I’m sorry if you’re upset.”

            Upset about what?

            Oh. The arm.

            It’s…I’m not sure what the word is. Ridiculous? Ludicrous? Or is this kindness? I don’t think he understands how little autonomy I’ve had over my body. I’ve been trained not to worry about that. I was missing an arm, so he got me a new one. I’m unsure what the problem is.

            “The only thing I’m upset about is that somebody made the call to go to _Japan_.”

            “We weren’t going to stay there. We were going to make our way north from there after things cooled down. Northern Canada, we figured.”

            “Do we need to go somewhere? Is there a destination?”

            “No, just—away from people.”

            There’s something in his voice. I need to work to place it. I’m not always great at picking up on the emotions in people’s voices. It wasn’t a thing I needed to worry about for a long time.

            No, got it. Remorse. I figure out why pretty quickly. “They came for us in Wakanda.”

            With a sigh, Steve echoes, “They came for us in Wakanda.”

            There is something very weird about seeing this man behind the wheel of a car. My brain is scrambled on the best of days, so most of the time I’ve learned to rely on how I feel about things. There are occasions when it doesn’t go well—case in point, Liechtenstein—but judging from the fact that I’m still alive after everything, my instincts are pretty good. So I know that there is something weird about seeing Steve Rogers behind the wheel of a car.

            “How’d it go down?” I ask, trying to puzzle out this mystery. He’s just a guy driving a car.

            “It was all right at first. T’Challa’s a good man. A great man. Started out with diplomacy, and that went better than expected. Well—it went terribly, but he didn’t give us up. And about two months ago, a strike team managed to get within three miles of the compound, and they took themselves out instead of being captured.” His lips make a thin line, and I know, I’m not sure how I know, that it means he’s deeply unhappy about something. “Then a month ago the drones started.”

            “Drones.”

            “Yeah. Coming at us from all sides. Every time, doing a kamikaze with the payload. The few times we could recover wreckage, it was always a different country. Like everybody was coming at us.”

            “The compound took a real hit?”

            It’s dark, but I can still see the twitch his jaw makes. “No. They never came anywhere near us.”

            “Then what’s the problem?”

            He pauses, then says, “The problem is that they only targeted civilians. Three hundred people killed in under a month, thousands injured. And every time, the place would be papered with leaflets.” Steve nods a little. “Give us Falcon. Give us the Winter Soldier. Give us Captain America.”

            “Smart.”

            He doesn’t like that. He really doesn’t like that. But he swallows it down—of course he does. I’m not sure why ‘of course.’ This man is an echo of a memory. I don’t know him. “T’Challa reached out to the countries where the drones came from, but they kept saying that they had nothing to do with it. The only one that would even admit that anything came from their airspace said that their national security systems had been compromised. I don’t know if it’s true or not. They’re all places that hate us, and aren’t really that scared of Wakanda.”

            “Or it’s a consortium.”

            “Maybe. All I know is—we were getting civilians killed. We didn’t want that.”

            “The Wakandans probably didn’t want that either.”

            “They were about two days from rioting. T’Challa said publicly that they were going to stand their ground against foreign aggression, but—“ Steve shrugged.

            “But he told you to hit the bricks.”

            “He mostly said it with his eyes, so I said it with my mouth. Deal was, get us to the base in Japan, then see about getting us north. Someplace quiet, someplace uninhabited.”

            “Japan first, though,” I say, unimpressed. “Since you’re looking for uninhabited.”

            Patient, Steve responds, “Wakanda’s not the most popular place right now. Japan was about the only friendly place they could send us.”

            “And now we’re in Russia. After almost getting captured by North Korea. How popular do you think Captain America is in either of those places?”

            “I’m not Captain America,” Steve replies, and I furrow my brows. He keeps going, like it’s nothing. “We were finally forced down over the Sea of Japan. Right on the coast, even though we had no idea which one at that point. We had no controls, no guidance system, we were stuck above cloud cover until the engines finally failed. Pilot was killed. One more Wakandan on my conscience. Sam went into the water, we were going down on the beach, and I could see trucks coming….”

            I understand what happened. “It was him or me.”

            “You were safe. You were in cryo. He was dying right in front of me.”

            “Why do you sound like you regret it?”

            Steve takes a moment before answering. He seems surprised at having to explain himself. “Tough decision. Both of you in danger—had to make a call.”

            “Do you wish you had made a different choice?”

            He smiles a bit at that, only it looks like a smile not meant. Then he says, “It was the right choice.” Steve shakes his head a few times. “I’m sorry—you having to wake up alone like that. I started the sequence to get you out of cryo, so you’d have a fighting chance. I hoped that we’d get to you before you woke. But you know Sam—had to make a big production out of having almost drowned. Took us a little while to get him in the air, find a car. By that point—guess we almost started World War Three.”

            “Pity we didn’t,” I say. “Since we had so much fun the last time around.”

            Now that’s the kind of smile where he shows off perfect teeth. I don’t have perfect teeth. I think I have caps. I cannot remember when that happened.          

            “So Japan,” I say one more time.

            Steve lets out a breath. “Not gonna let that one go, are you.”

            “Then northern Canada. Do you realize how close that route would take us to the Raft?”

            “That’s pretty close to word for word what Sam said to me.”

            “Huh. So he was right for once in his life.”

            From the backseat comes a muttered, “I heard that, Tarzan.”

            I go back to testing out my new fingers, giving them roll after roll. “What about everyone else? They were too smart to come?”

            “We’re the last ones.” No missing the ‘trying to be nonchalant about this’ there. “You, me, Sam.”

            I can tell he’s not pleased about it, but I’m relieved. I don’t like working in big groups. Things are much easier to control when it’s just myself. Or in this case, a trio, which still seems like too many.

            “Is there a mission?” I ask.

            “Yeah,” Steve says. “Don’t die.”

            I give it a moment, but he doesn’t say anything else. So I prompt, “Then what?”

            “Cross that bridge when we get to it, Buck.”

            Wait. Got it.

            Snapping my fingers, I say, “Brooklyn.”

            Furrowing his brows, Steve shrugs, “What about Brooklyn?”

            “I was trying to figure out why you look so weird driving.”

            After a moment, he starts to laugh.

            That feels _really_ weird. I can’t—when was the last time I made someone laugh? But there he is. Laughing, because I said something—funny? And not because I’ve just shot him and he’s about to die and because sometimes that’s how people react. No. He’s just…laughing.

            “You’re a real wiseacre,” Steve says.

            “Did you—I can’t remember. Did you have a license?”

            “In Brooklyn? Of course I didn’t have a license.” He lets out another soft laugh. “Technically—I’ve never had a license.”

            Something comes in through the cracks. “I had a license,” I remember. There was one time…I borrowed someone’s car, and Steve and I went somewhere in it. I can’t cobble together much more than that. I point. “Turn right.”

            He does, and asks, “So where are we going?”

            “Coast. Find the first boat we can and get on it.”

            “We have to stop first.”

            “For what?”

            “Well—I don’t know about you, but my metabolism is four times that of an average man, so I need to eat, and you need to have a shower. Plus I think Sam is going to mutiny if we don’t get him some clothes that don’t smell like seaweed. Or look after that head wound.”

            I reply, “First off, we should leave him behind.”

            Sam mumbles sleepily, “I heard that too, Cousin Itt.”

            “We’re not leaving anyone behind,” Steve says evenly.

            “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but how many black men have you ever seen in Russia?” I ask.

            “Leave me behind to die and I will _haunt you_ ,” Sam threatens.

            “Second—why do I need a shower?” I don’t understand why that’s a priority. I smell fine. I understand that Steve needs to eat—I can remember times in the war when he didn’t get food and he would practically collapse, and since we are allies now—yes, I now have allies—I have to be concerned that his nutritional intake is sufficient. Do I actually smell that bad out of cryo? Will it affect the mission?

            Steve waits a few seconds. “You’re covered in blood, Buck.”

            I hadn’t noticed. I suppose I am. It’s all over my arms, including my nice new one. Probably on my face too. I think the first guy’s head exploding over mine probably left some residue.

            Should have noticed.

            “I just killed five people,” I offer in explanation.

            That seems to be the wrong answer. Steve just says, “Yep,” and takes us faster down the narrow, icy road.


	3. The Cave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all like flashbacks, because honestly I can't live without them.

_The sun’s coming up when I leave work._

_My eyes are aching and I’m pretty sure I’ve got grease in my hair from pushing it back with both hands. I sweat so much that the pomade seems to just leak out after a while because it’s the cheap stuff, and the guys rag on me about it. Swear to Christ, I hear Pretty Boy Barnes or just Pretty Boy more than I hear my own name. I laugh at it, and come right back at them. Remind them how much their wives and gals might like to have a pretty boy of their own, and they laugh, but there’s that flicker of insecurity in their eyes and I fucking love doing that to them._

_When I’m outside, for real outside and not just in sight of the water, I take in a deep breath. It’s a little after six. I need to be home by half past, and that means I need to put my feet to walking_ now. _Only I take the moment to breathe. It’s Friday morning, and that means I’ve just finished my five days. I’ve only got to put in a few more hours—okay, eight—and then I can sleep and go out tonight. I won’t make Steve go out with me. No, tonight will be mine, and then tomorrow night I’ll drag the kid out kicking and screaming. He’ll get all sulky, but I’ll find something he’ll like. Maybe a movie._

_Not that we can afford it, but what the hell._

_It’s because I take the moment to stand here and breathe in the outside instead of making tracks that there’s nothing I can do when Morrison yells, “Barnes!”_

_God damn._

_I turn, with a smile. “Hey, Mr. Morrison.”_

_“Don’t hey me, Barnes.” He’s my father’s age, only my old man’s got his hair and it looks like Morrison’s split about the same time Wilson was in office. I’ve never seen him smile. I can’t for the life of me think of a time the old bastard would ever smile. “You want to do another shift tonight?”_

_No. I don’t. Cripes, you gotta be kidding me—_

_Before I’ve even had time to answer, he says, “Cause I can ask O’Bannion—“_

_“No sir,” I say, polite as anything. “I’ll be here.”_

_“Good,” he says, and turns and walks back into the building._

_I shake my head a little. It’s fine. I know it’s fine. My ma works three jobs, and still found the time to have breakfast and dinner on the table for us every day. This is nothing. If she can do it, I can’t complain. I’d be ashamed of myself._

_Gotta get a leg on. Get away from these half built ships, get home, and then get ready._

_I put my jacket over my shoulder and start walking. I pass a guy about my age, blond. He’s actual navy, unlike me, who’s just a civilian. I look at him, and he looks back, and I forget him the second he’s passed._

_We don’t live too far from the docks, which I’m thanking God for today. I can just walk home to Plymouth, and people are all starting to get up, get ready for the day. I’ve been up since nine last night._

_I’m fine. I can do this._

_Mrs. Daniels is letting Roscoe out, and he runs right to me. It always kills me that this tiny dog is called Roscoe, because I don’t think Mrs. D knows what a roscoe is. I crouch down, happy like a kid for the attention. “Thatta boy,” I say, jiggling his face._

_“James,” Mrs. Daniels said._

_“Mrs. Daniels,” I reply, exasperated, “you know nobody calls me James.”_

_“Well, I refuse to call you Bucky, because the name is simply ridiculous.”_

_I roll my eyes, getting back to my feet. “Yeah, but it’s my name.” I tip an invisible hat to her, and give her a grin—_ the _grin—and even that wicked old Englishwoman blushes a little at me before I continue on my way._

_My stomach’s hurting me something awful. I had the world’s saddest sandwich for dinner at about two this morning, and that’s about it for the last day._

_People do more with less. That’s what Steve’s always saying. It’s his voice I hear popping up in my head any time I get to belly aching about something. Steve always knows the right thing. I mean—he’s dumb as a sack of hammers when it comes to life sometimes, I swear, but he knows what’s_ right _. Me, I’m just trying to pull myself from day to day._

_I get myself up the steps to the cave. We’ve got an apartment about two blocks from the building where he grew up. He couldn’t afford to keep the old place after his ma passed on—hell, they couldn’t afford it when she was around—and it took almost an act of God for him to leave there. I had to make it seem like it was for me. Had to invent all these problems with my parents, how they were driving me whacky, how I was a grown man who was ready to live on his own, and couldn’t he help me out? Times are tight, there’s no way I can afford a place on my own, so can you help me out here, Steve?_

_And not ‘I think that if I leave you alone in that place, it’ll be the saddest thing I ever heard of.’_

_I unlock the door, and no surprise, the place is dead. It’s a one bedroom with a bathroom the same size as a closet. We do not have a closet._

_I hang my jacket up by the door, already unbuttoning my shirt. “Stevie!” I call. The exhaustion leaves my voice, because I’m one hell of an actor, and I go to the bedroom door. I do a drumroll on it. “Stevie G! The day awaits!”_

_Then there’s that tense moment when I think he’s dead. That he’s died in the middle of the night when I was looking at sparks through the helmet, and he’s been here all alone for hours. I can’t help it. It’s goofy and I’m a grown man and so’s he and I shouldn’t worry about him like he’s an invalid, but he is an invalid and I worry. So there._

_A little groan._

_I shake my head and open the door. “Is this any way to greet me? All that I do for you, you just lay there when I come in?”_

_From under the blanket, he mumbles, “Shuddup. Sleepin’.”_

_I reach down and yank the blanket right off of him. Steve gasps and curls into a little ball, even though it’s not that cold and I know the twit was sleeping when I went to work last night._

_“I ain’t going to school without you, pal. This whole thing was your idea. Rise and shine.” I start folding the blanket automatically. It’s the only one we’ve got. We’re about as protective of it as we would be a pet._

_He wipes at his eyes with spindly fingers, and lifts his head off the pillow. “Six thirty already?”_

_I look at him from under my brows and retort, “Naw, Morrison let me off early, said he’d even pay me for the full shift.”_

_Struggling to sit up, Steve mutters, “Yeah, you’re a real hero.” I grin as he stretches and yawns. He’s wearing one of my old sweaters that doesn’t fit me anymore, and that my ungrateful little brother refused to wear. Steve drops his hands, looking sleepy and disgruntled. Then he looks at me through blond hair, a smile starting to form. “Hey—it’s Friday, ain’t it?”_

_Hiding my dismay, I toss the blanket back down on the mattress. “Maybe for some people.”_

_His face falls. “Oh—Buck. You didn’t.”_

_I shrug, like I don’t care. “It’s folding paper, Stevie. We’re both awful fond of it.”_

_He makes that face. I hate it when he does. Like he feels helpless, and then I feel helpless too, and both of us feel terrible._

_I clap my hands a few times. “C’mon Stevie. You gotta get up. You gotta get me some food together or I’m gonna collapse.”_

_“Bet you a dime you fall asleep in class again today,” he says._

_Smirking, I leave the bedroom. “No bet. You ain’t got any dimes.”_

_I go into the bathroom, and I stop pretending to smile. I turn the water on, and it’s cold as a the East River in January. Leaving it to warm, I strip out of my clothes. My back hurts. I was bent over the whole night. Probably will be tonight again too._

_Those limeys better appreciate all that we’re doing._

It’s money _, I remind myself. And we always need money. Everybody does, but we’re always a few cents short of starving._

_I step out of my clothes, a sweaty, grimy mess. I don’t like being dirty. Never have. Ma always made sure we were neat as pins, and I guess it stuck. I like having my hair right and my creases sharp and my nails clean._

_I take a look at my hands. I’ve got callouses. You wear those heavy gloves all night long, heat pouring off you, sweat on every surface and down every crevice. Fire all you see. Fire and metal coming together, making something new. I’ve never had hands like Steve’s. He’s got those skinny long things that look like they’re supposed to be holding a pencil._

_Me? I’ve got the hands of someone who looks like he’s supposed to do some damage._

_No more stalling. Gotta get in the shower._

_I step in and it’s like a kick in the nuts. Mother Mary and Joseph, it is_ cold _. I hiss, and I try not to be angry about it. I really do. But we pay our rent on time, unlike everyone else in this forsaken place, and I work my guts out and I do what I’m supposed to, and nothing ever goes my way, it never goes my way—_

_I’ve punched the wall before I realize I’ve even done it. I look in surprise at my left fist, feeling the pain radiating up my wrist. My knuckles have split open. That’s all it took, was one hard punch._

_“Jesus, Buck,” I mutter. “Get it together.”_

_My temper. My goddamn temper._

_I shut my eyes when Steve says outside the door, “Hey Buck? You okay?”_

_“Yeah, Stevie. Just slipped. Tell the cook I want pancakes and sausage. Oh, and orange juice.”_

_“The cook says sure, if what you really want is toast and city juice.”_

_“Great,” I say weakly._

_I flex my hand, looking at the blood trickling down my knuckles, mingling with the water. I do some really stupid things sometimes._

_I fall asleep in class. Steve elbows me awake._

_Fair and square, I slip him a dime when the hour is up. He frowns and says, “No, you said no bet—“_

_“Buy yourself something pretty, Stevie,” I lip off, to make him scowl, and wave over my shoulder. “See you after sculpting!”_

_The next night we go to see_ The Wizard of Oz _, only he pays for it. Before I can even think to argue, he gives me that look I’ve known for  fifteen years, and he says, “Guess what. I’m using that dime to help buy something pretty.”_

_He pays forty six cents for the two of us, and we sit right in the middle. I start to get into it with a guy in front of us who doesn’t want to take off his hat, and I end it when I can see Steve wanting to jump in._

_The movie starts, and Steve falls in love with Judy Garland. I can see it on his face. The kid’s always been hopeless for brunettes. He goes big eyed, open mouthed, and I snicker. That sharp, skinny elbow gets me in the side again._

_Then the whole thing opens into colour, and I’m the idiot with a slack jaw. I don’t even care that I’ve got to be back at the navy yard in a day. This is worth it._

_Wonder what that would be like. A world completely different from the one I know. I’m always reading science fiction when I can get my hands on it. Steve and I went to the World’s Fair on opening day, back in April, and they had the first ever science fiction convention. I was in heaven. I love that stuff. The World of Tomorrow._

_But you always want to go home again. That makes sense. I love it here. I_ hate _it here, but I love it here. In the end, I think I’ll always come back here._

_If I do ever leave. Which I probably won’t. And that’s just fine._

_At the end of the night, we walk home with my arm slung across Steve’s shoulders, and he’s talking a mile a minute about how beautiful that girl was, and I just grin._

_It’s Brooklyn, it’s 1939, I am twenty two years old, and it is one of the happiest nights of my life._


	4. The Sea

I’m finally properly warm for the first time in a day. I’m sopping wet again, but—

            I am allowed satisfaction. I am allowed—

            I am not the Winter Soldier. I’m allowed what I want.

            The programming kicks in, and I have to close my eyes until the moment passes and takes the pain with it. Fine. That can be a battle I fight another day.

            The water is warm, and I am satisfied.

            I turn under the spray, running my hands through my hair. It’s long. It’s not practical. Sometimes it gets in my eyes. Steve and Sam have the right idea. They have short hair that requires no thought. Perhaps I should look into that.

            I’ve spent too long in here. More than is necessary.

            Turning off the water, I take the towel that’s already damp. Steve and Sam had showers. I stood watch. I’m not tired, like they are. I’m unsure how long Steve has been awake, and Sam does not recover from injury as quickly as we do.

            Drying off, I am especially careful of the new arm. I don’t know its specifications yet. I asked Steve about it briefly, and before he could answer, Sam piped up, “That was on the phone you destroyed, genius.”

            Foolish. Putting all your information in one place, accessible by satellite. They are far too trusting.

            Folding the towel, I hang it up, then get dressed. I chose this house because of the man who left it. He was approximately my height and size. Steve made us wait until the children had left. I wouldn’t have bothered.

            I wouldn’t have _hurt_ them. But I wouldn’t have waited.

            I’m relieved that the man dressed mostly in black. It’s what I’m comfortable in. Bright colours draw attention. I don’t want attention. Bad enough the Steve expects us to get out of the Federation with his face and Sam’s face. My face—I can be what is needed.

            When I pull the black sweater over my head, I try the arm a few times to see if the scales will snag on it. Nope. They’re pressed so flush that it’s the next best thing to a smooth surface.

            My training can go fuck itself. I’m not just satisfied with this arm. I _love_ it.

            I pull on the boots I’ve chosen. Black, worn in. My size. Then I put the knife I found into the right boot, so that it’s near.

            I wipe a hand across the mirror in order to inspect myself. My jaw is stubbled and my eyes look sleepy. Good. I seem normal enough. I tuck my hair back behind my ear to study a fading bruise on my jaw. The few contusions I sustained in the truck crash have almost gone.

            Standing back, I pause. There is a razor and comb on one side of the sink. I can see that the razor has been recently used. That will be Steve. I’ve no memory of him in life or in his file unshaven.

            Reaching down with the metal hand, I pick up the comb. The old one would not have been able to do that. Lifting it, I part my hair very carefully down the middle, then comb my hair.

            I have no memory of the last time I did this. When I usually come out of cryo, someone shaves me and takes care of my hair, and then I’m set loose.

            Was. I was set loose. I am no longer the Winter Soldier.

            I put the comb down, and I feel peculiar. No. Vulnerable.

            Unacceptable.

            _Status_.

            I close my eyes. No. No, I need to….

            I exhale, and leave the bathroom.

            Steve and Sam are in the kitchen. I’m not exactly sure what they’re doing. I mean, I understand that they’re washing dishes—but _why_?

            I stand in the doorway until Steve notices me. “Hey.” His eyes flicker, and there’s something a little defensive there. “Didn’t want to leave a mess,” he says, going back to drying.

            Strange. “Are we ready to go?”

            Sam looks sideways, and says, “I don’t feel too good about—“

            “Are we ready to go?” I ask.

            Steve mulls it over for a moment, then nods, looking at me like he doesn’t care. “A few more minutes, then we move out.”

            He cares.

            I turn to go down the hall, and he clears his throat. It’s meant to make me pause, so I do what he wants. “We’re not killing anyone today,” he says.

            “Uh huh,” I answer, and continue.

            “Buck.”

            I lift a hand over my shoulder. Got it. Not killing anyone.

            I go to the closed door. Across the hall is the kids’ room. There’s a couple of old, battered toys on the ground. Glancing at that, I open the door up.

            Once I’m inside, I close it behind myself. The curtains in here are translucent and pink. Polyester. I’m suddenly remembering this job I did in the ‘80s. This room feels very familiar. After seventy years, though, a lot of things feel familiar.

            I pick up a wooden chair, and take it over to the bed. The woman hogtied on it is staring at me with eyes that bulge out of her head. She’s blond, but not a real blonde, brown eyes leaking. Those jeans remind me of the ‘80s too.

            I lean forward, looking at her. She’s trying to sob around the gag in her mouth, but that’s an easy way to choke. I could tell her that, only I don’t think she’d listen.

            Forcing her gaze, I raise my brows. I wait a few moments. You give people silence and time, and it can be as effective as a punch through the sternum. To. I mean to.

            When she finally closes her eyes, terrified, I look at the bedside table. She has pictures of herself and her husband, and the two kids. I snap my fingers close to her face, startling her.

            “You are not going to tell _anyone_ that we were here. Not him. Not the police. No one. If you do, I’ll come back here, and I’ll kill all of you.” I pick up the picture of the kids. I make sure she’s looking at it, then I give the picture a light tap with my metal index finger. The glass splinters, and she lets out a low, tortured whine. “Do you understand?”

            She nods, emphatically.

            Putting the picture frame down, I reach down to my boot, and slip the knife out. She starts crying again, and struggling. I say, “No.”

            She stops moving.

            “In a second, you’re going to be able to speak. And I’m going to ask you again. Hold still.”

            I take the gag, and slice it off of her. She gasps, then pushes her face against the blankets. She whispers under her breath a moment, then swallows, and looks at me.

            “I’ll take everyone,” I promise her. “If you say a word. Do you understand.”

            She nods again. “I understand.”

            “What’s your explanation for the missing clothes and money?”

            “There’s…there’s boys. From the city. They come out here…they break in. For fun. I went down to the shore…to look for shells. My…my daughter has a school project. When I came home—things were gone. The door was open. He won’t bother with the police. We know they don’t care.”

            One of the reasons I like Russia. People understand how life really works here.

            “Very good,” I say. “I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to go in the closet, and you’ll wait there. You’ll count to a thousand, and when you’re done, we’ll be gone. And if you don’t tell anyone about us, you’ll never have to see my face again.” Turning the knife over in my hand, I lift a brow ever so slightly. “But look at my eyes. If you do tell anyone…I will know. I swear to you. I will know.”

            She believes me. I cut her loose and put her in the closet.

 

“We’ve done some pretty terrible things, and been some pretty terrible places, Steve,” Sam says. “But for my money, this is the worst.”

            I glance back over my shoulder. “What’s he complaining about?”

            “I get that this is your natural habitat, but come on.”

            “What?” Steve says, with a little grin. “You never wanted to go to sea?”

            “Hell no I didn’t. There’s a reason I was in the air force.”

            We are in the open water. There’s about four hundred kilometres left between us and Kholmsk. I’m at the wheel of the boat. The cold mist doesn’t bother me. It’s a grey day, clouds threatening to do something terrible, but that’s fine. I remember a tsunami in this sea. It’s not the sky we need to worry about, but whatever happens below.

            It’s December, so it’s not even the coldest it gets out here. It’s maybe -15, but the way the fly boy’s chattering, it might as well be -50.

            Fly boy. Huh.

            It’s a small gillnetter that we shouldn’t be taking across the sea, but the village was small and my options were limited. It’ll get us to Sakhalin.

All of us are in the tiny wheelhouse, and I’m keeping my eyes on the controls. I think we have the fuel to get us as far as the island. If not, I’ll have to kill Sam and steal his wings.

            Kidding. That was a joke.

            I’m going to have to work on this humor thing.

            “What’s the plan?”

            I’m not sure how long we’ve been out here already. An hour? He just followed me without any questions, and now he asks for the plan? I thought this man was supposed to be a leader. It’s disconcerting, how easily he follows me. Sam might be obnoxious, but he does very little without questioning why. I loathe and admire that in equal measures.

            “We reach Sakhalin Island,” I reply.

            “Not Japan.”

            “Not Japan,” I say firmly, before recognizing that Steve is teasing me. It throws me off for a moment. I’m not used to people doing that. “We’ll come in at Kholmsk. The port doesn’t freeze, so we should be fine. Then we make our way north.”

            “What’s north?”

            “Let me guess,” Sam says, “more of this beautiful Russian winter.”

            “He would have never survived the Ardennes,” I say, and Steve lets out a single laugh. I was not at that battle—Bucky Barnes was gone days before that happened. But I know the history of the war that this body fought in.

            “Ha ha,” Sam says, “greatest generation snobs. Never gets old. _Never_.”

            “North?” Steve prompts.

            He’s leaning back against the wall. We’re wearing the same man’s clothes, only I know I’m supposed to be in black, and he looks…wrong. Have I ever seen him in black before?

            I cannot recall.

            “We go to Okha. Then the next place.”

            “What’s the next place?”

            They might be my allies, and I think I trust Steve, but they were stupid enough to bring that phone with them even after they were chased clear across Asia by drones. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

            “Reassured,” Sam mutters. “I’m just incredibly reassured.”

            “You don’t want to let us know where we’re going,” Steve says.

            “No,” I answer.

            Sam says, “How do we know—no, don’t give me that look. How do we know we’re safe?”

            I frown. “Safe,” I echo softly.

            “Yeah, safe, hollow man. You remember the word, don’t you?”

            “Is safety a concern?”

            “Now you’re just playing dumb.”

            Steve leans towards me and offers, “I think he’s asking what the threat level is.”

            “Sakhalin will be much safer than Japan, and the risk of casualties will plummet compared to what you were about to inflict on the island. Population density of Sakhalin is 8 people per square kilometre, Hokkaido is closer to 70.” I’m good with hard data, not people. I look to Steve. “You implied that civilian casualties were of a concern to you.”

            He nods, eyes steady on me. “I did.”

            I don’t know how to act around him. I don’t know how to look at him, or speak. All the time, I’m a different person without knowing which I’m supposed to be, and he treats me very, very oddly. He makes things complicated. This is the first time I’ve come out of cryo without a reset, and everything feels unstable. He makes everything unstable.

            _Status_.

            I look back out at the grey seas, and say, “The island has minimal internet coverage, decreasing our risk of detection by facial recognition programs. It’s sparsely inhabited, but there are foreign workers on the island due to the oil and gas industry, so Sam will be less likely to raise suspicion.”

            “Yeah, me being black is a lot more suspicious than a guy walking around with a _metal arm_.”

            “I’m familiar with the area, and the customs. I also have a contact on the island.”

            “A contact,” Steve says.

            I pause. “If she’s still alive. I think I have a contact. It gets….” Do not show weakness. Do not show that you are at a disadvantage, that sometimes you cannot separate days and places and people. “We will re-evaluate in Okha.”

            Steve crosses his arms, and says, “Okay.”

            Just like that.

            I’ve shot this guy before, right? That’s something that happened. And he’s going to let me just drag him through the backwoods of far east Russia without knowing what the plan is.

            Then again, he did abandon all his friends to help me. So I already know he’s insane. He wears his weakness on his sleeve. His weakness is me.

            Sam sighs, and I’m glad he does. I’m glad I’m not the only one who realizes what’s wrong with Steve.


	5. The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today, because it's slow torture uploading these one at a time, especially when they're under 3000 words.

_The first time I really notice him, not just see him but notice him, I am seven years old and he is six and he’s being shoved down on the ground._

_I’m not supposed to go any farther than the Donaldsons’ house. Ma’s said it, I don’t know how many times, and I know I should listen, only I don’t, and Dad’s walloped me for it more times than I can count, and I can count pretty high. They’d keep me inside, but Ma’s losing her mind with the babies and she tells me to go play. I know how to irritate her enough that she’ll kick me out of the house for a while. I don’t think of it like that, I just know how to do it._

_I pass the Donaldsons’ house and just keep going. I’m safe here. I know everybody. I was born in the house where we live, and my sister and brother were born there too, and if there’s more babies that’s where they’ll be born. All the streets are familiar, all the houses, all the people._

_“Bucky,” says a voice from above, and I look up. Mrs. McConnell is reeling in her laundry. Right now I think she’s old, but she’s actually only twenty one. She’s pretty, even when her hair’s all tied up in a scarf like that. Maybe prettier. All the fellas in the neighbourhood say she’s a real Sheba. I think she’s just the bee’s knees. “Kiddo, are you supposed to be this far from the house?”_

_I shrug, and say, “I’m takin’ a stroll.”_

_And she laughs at that. I love how she laughs. It makes me feel older, taller. There’s something about making a grown up laugh because you’re funny, and not because you’re a kid and they’re laughing at you since you said something stupid._

_“Your ma’ll have your hide.”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“Well, don’t go too far, sweetheart. I see you go any further than Front and I’ll come get you myself. You hear me?”_

_“Yes ma’am.”_

_She shakes her head, and says, “As you were, soldier.”_

_I grin, and keep going. Soldier. I like that._

_I put my hands in my pockets, and I kick a rock as I walk along. It’s not like I do much when I leave the house. Most of my friends live a few blocks from here, and we’re just school friends. There’s no one really near me that I like to play with. Usually I go out with a book and read on the stoop, or I go for a walk and think._

_Day dreaming, my ma calls it. She says I’m a day dreamer. Dad says it too, only he doesn’t say it the same way. He doesn’t sound so happy about it._

_It’s after dinner. I helped feed the babies, and I did the dishes, and all my homework is done. Dad will be late. He’s at work. He’s a welder at the navy yard. I can’t stay out too late or he’ll see me when he comes home, but I’ll know when to turn around. This is the time that I have for just me. No chores, no schoolwork, no parents._

_So what if I day dream?_

_I kick the rock into the gutter and look for a new one, when I hear some kids yelling. I head towards the sound, because if it’s a fight then I’m interested. Don’t know why. People fight around here plenty, and Ma says it’s pointless, but I dunno. Something about hitting somebody—I like watching that. Most boys like watching that, and the girls at school always want to watch when there’s a fight too._

_But it’s not a real fight. It’s a group of three boys down an alley and they’re shoving down this other kid. I know all of them, of course I do, because we all know each other here, but we’re not friends. These boys are a year younger than me. That’s Michael Fitzpatrick, and that’s Timmy Jones, and that’s Richie Clements._

_The kid they keep pushing down is that tiny little blond guy who’s always sick and who’s almost never in school. Roger? No. No, that’s his last name. Steve Rogers, that’s his name._

_It’s not really any of my business, but three on one is not fair, especially when the kid is that_ small _and he’s gasping for breath, bright red with anger and humiliation. The guys are laughing at him, and Timmy’s saying, “You know what my ma says? Huh?”_

_Steve tries to get back on his feet, and it’s nothing for Timmy to just push him back down again. Doesn’t have to shove him. Just gives him a little push._

_“My ma says you’re a bastard.”_

_“Shut up!” Steve yells. “My dad died in the war—“_

_“My ma says that’s not true—she says your ma’s a whore—“_

_Then all of a sudden that little guy is just throwing himself at Timmy’s legs, and everybody’s so surprised that no one does anything for a second. Steve knocks Timmy off his feet, and is swinging wildly at his face._

_Michael and Richie pull him off, then they’re all hitting him, and the whole time Steve is screaming and hitting them back. He keeps screaming, “My dad was a soldier—my dad was a soldier—“_

_And I don’t know. It’s not really any of my business, but it’s three on one and I think of the way Mrs. McConnell just said, “As you were, soldier,” and how good that felt._

_So I’m stepping into the alley, and I’m yelling, “_ Hey! _” at the top of my lungs._

_Everybody stops, and Steve actually falls down because they were holding him up so they could hit him. The other three guys look at me wide eyed._

_Because I’m Bucky Barnes. I’m good at school, and I make the teachers laugh, but I’m also tall for my age and I’ve been suspended twice this year, once because I broke a kid’s nose._

_“C’mere,” I say._

_They look at each other. I can tell they’re about to go run away from me down the alley._

_“You come here now or I find you when you’re alone. Now c’mere!”_

_They drag their feet towards me like they’re facing a firing squad in one of those books I’m not supposed to read. I know about firing squads and prisoners of war and I know what a trench is too._

_Timmy’s actually bleeding. For all his flailing, Steve managed to catch him one on the beak. They’re looking up at me like they want to die._

_“I see any of you near him again, you’re not gonna have him to deal with.” I put a thumb to my chest. “You’re gonna be dealing with me. His dad died in the war. What’s wrong with you?”_

_Timmy mutters, “That’s not what my—“_

_“I don’t care what your ma says,” I snap. “You asking to be hit again? That what you want?” I put up a fist, and he recoils. “You don’t get hit enough at home, you need me to do it for you?” He shakes his head, hard. I scowl at all of them, then nod over my shoulder. “Beat it.”_

_They flee like rats leaving a sinking ship. That’s what my dad would say._

_There’s something that’s pretty good about being able to do that. To scare some kids so bad that they just run away. And I did it doing a stand up thing too. I feel pretty great about this._

_Then I notice that the little kid is crying, and I don’t feel so great anymore._

_He’s curled into a ball, rocking himself back and forth, and he’s sobbing so hard that I can’t even move. I rub the back of my neck, looking for someone else to help me deal with this. I can deal with crying babies, yeah, but they’re babies. I’m not supposed to cry. Dad says if I do, people will think I’m a girl, and he gave me a slap the last time I cried in front of him. You’re not supposed to cry like this._

_There’s nobody around, though. I’m the only one here._

_It’s not because I’m some great person, or it’s just how it was always meant to be, or anything like that. I go over to him because there’s no one else to do this for me._

_I don’t know what to say. He’s rocking so hard, and he’s whispering, “She’s not, she’s not, she’s not, she’s not.”_

_We’re seven and six and neither of us know what a whore is and neither do the kids who said it either, but we know that it’s something awful, something awful that they said about his ma, and you just don’t_ do _that. You don’t go after someone’s ma._

_I don’t know what else to do, so I crouch down and say, “I know she’s not, pal,” and I pat his shoulder._

_Just like that, he explodes out at me, so fast and angry that I fall back on my rear end in surprise. “Who asked you?” he shouts. “Who asked you to help?”_

_“Jeez,” I say, “I was just—“_

_“I don’t need your help!” He’s bloody and bruised and this kid needs all the help he can get, but he seems just as angry at me as he was the guys who hit him. “Get away from me! I don’t need your help!”_

_I push myself away, and up onto my feet. “Fine! You don’t need my help!”_

_Shaking my head, I walk back out to the street. Shows me for trying to do something nice._

_I almost run into a woman on the sidewalk who has blond hair and blue eyes and she’s so thin that I know right away she’s his ma. She’s calling, “Steven—“_

_I point back down the alley, and say, “He’s down there. Some kids kinda messed him up.”_

_She takes one look at me, and disappears without another word. I hear her murmuring to him, and I hear him cry, and I walk away, feeling bad. I want to go home. I want my ma._

_It’s the only time in my whole life that I ever see Steve Rogers cry._

_The next night, we’re just finishing up the dishes. I’m drying, because Ma doesn’t like me reaching into the water where there could be knives._

_There’s a knock on the door, and Ma lifts her head. “What do you think, Bucky?” she asks, wiping her hands on her apron. She bends down to kiss the top of my head. “Think somebody’s shown up to give us all our many millions?”_

_“Uh huh,” I say._

_She throws a grin over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner. I have the same grin as my ma. She says I’m the spitting image of my dad, but people react the same way to both of us when we smile._

_I’m drying off the plate when Ma calls, “Bucky? Somebody’s here to see you.”_

_I frown. Nobody ever comes to see me. I put the plate away, and I fold the dish cloth, then I go to the front door._

_It’s the kid from yesterday. He’s got a black eye and there’s a bruise on his jaw, and he looks really unhappy. His small hands are in fists, and he’s looking down at the ground instead of me or Ma._

_I look at Ma, not really sure what to do, and she motions with her eyes for me to go talk to him. So I go where I’m supposed to, and she pats my back before walking away and leaving us alone._

_He doesn’t say anything. I stick my hands in my pockets, and say warily, “Yeah?”_

_Scuffing his foot, he mutters, “My ma says I should apologize to you.”_

_“Okay.” Nothing else happens, so I prompt, “Then are you gonna apologize?”_

_He glares at me. He looks at people like he doesn’t weigh forty pounds, like we all don’t know he’s probably gonna be dead before he’s even ten. “I just did,” he says through gritted teeth._

_“No you didn’t,” I argue. “I tried that. My ma says that you have to actually say ‘I’m sorry’ or you’re just pretending.”_

_He looks like he wants to hit me—those little fists he’s got definitely suggest that he’s about to—but he pushes out, “I’m sorry.”_

_“I forgive you,” I say, and now it looks like I’m the one who hit him, the way he reacts._

_I figure he’ll just take off, because he obviously doesn’t want to be here. He keeps standing on the stoop, head bent._

_I’m about to ask him what he wants, or just tell him to leave, when he says, like he absolutely has to make sure that I know, “My dad was a soldier. He was in the 107 th. He died.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“People say things—say things that aren’t true. About me. About my ma. I’ve got pictures of him. I’ve got the medal that they sent her. My dad was a hero.”_

_“Of course he was,” I say._

_He looks up at me, cautious. I don’t know why he’s being cautious. His dad was a war hero. I’d be proud too._

_He shrugs, and says quietly, “You didn’t have to help.”_

_“Yeah I did.”_

_“No—“_

_“If it was you, would you have helped?”_

_There’s that look again. Cautious. “Yeah.”_

_“Then don’t be sore about it. I helped you. You don’t have to be mad at me.”_

_He looks uncomfortable. He doesn’t know what to say. “No. Guess not.” Then he shrugs, and says, “I, uh…gotta get home.”_

_I nod. “That’s jake.” He steps away, and he is so small. He’s tough—there’s not a lot of soft guys around here—but he is so_ small _. So I call, “Ma, is it okay if I walk Steve home?”_

_There’s that glare again, and Ma answers, “Sure, Bucky. Take your jacket.”_

_I grab my jacket and slip outside, and he’s saying, “I don’t need you to—“_

_“I have a kid sister and brother. They’re one and two. I have to get out of here.”_

_That works, and he settles down. I get right away that I can’t say I’m doing something to help him. He’s got a lot of stupid pride._

_“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” he says as we walk down the steps._

_“You’re lucky.”_

_“Yeah. I guess.”_

_Now that I think about it, I’ve seen him at school. He’s never with anybody. He’s always got a book or he’s drawing something. When I do see him play, it’s on his own. I wonder what it would be like to be alone._

_Don’t think I’d like it much._

_“Hey,” I say, “what do you like to read?”_

_“I dunno. Everything.”_

_“Me too,” I say._

_So we talk._

_When I see Steve the next day at lunch, I sit down by him with_ Sky Island _and he gives me a look, but I tell him, “Dry up and read your book.”_

_We walk home together at the end of the day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, thank you. Like everyone else posting, I'm a fiend for comments, or any form of validation, really.   
> Also, hope your day is most excellent.


	6. Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk

“No,” Sam says.

            I don’t reply. I just look at Steve, because I know that’ll drive Sam crazy.

            Sam knows it too. He shakes his head at Steve, eyes dark. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”

            Steve takes a deep breath. “Sam—“

            “Unbelievable,” Sam says. “Fine.” He grabs the key and turns away, before abruptly turning back. “I know I’ve got this reputation for being patient. I’m the guy on the team that everybody talks to because I’m well-adjusted and laid back. I’m cool. I am a cool guy. But so help me God, I am on my _last_ nerve.”

            He grabs his bag off the ground and walks away from us.

            Steve sighs, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and watching him go up the stairs to the hotel room. I just tug my gloves into place and head out. We won’t have to go far. We can find all kinds of things in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk.

            Steve jogs to catch up, and I say, “Lower your hat. Don’t let anyone near you, especially the kids.”

            “It’s not like I’ve got anything they could steal.”

            “This city has the highest juvenile crime rate in the entire Federation. Don’t let the kids near you.”

            He’s wearing a knit cap under the hood of his jacket. He pulls it almost down to his eyes, and then blows on his hands. It’s not that he’s cold. The man survived 67 years under the ice. I think it’s just a—what’s the word? Fidget.

            We walk down the street. If you look up, you can see mountains. The island’s covered in them. It’s familiar. I am still not pleased that they got me near North Korea—or that we’re in Russia, like I ever needed to come back to this place—but as far as accidents go, it could have been worse.

            “You’ve been here before.”

            “Mm.”

            “When?”

            I shrug. “Plenty of times.” Wait. He’s probing me for information. It’s not like one of my handlers demanding a report. That would be easier. I still haven’t mastered this form of information exchange.

            Stop it. You survived two years on your own without having to be the soldier. You’re disoriented because you’re still trying to deal with being out of cryo without a reset. You’re a person. Or you used to be. Talk like a person.

            “I was brought here for training in the ‘60s and ‘80s. I was here, and I was north too. I know most of Russia fairly well.” A conversation is two sided. You’ve answered a question, now you ask one. “Have you been to Russia before?”

            He smiles a little. “Well, there was our Siberian adventure.”

            “Right.” Stark. The fight. Steve dropped his shield. “I forgot.” He glances at me, and I don’t look at him. “My memory isn’t great.”

            “Well, so long as you get us out of Russia alive, Buck, I don’t think anyone’s going to blame you for not knowing every single detail. And you’re doing pretty well with the local colour.”

            My memory isn’t great because they shocked me and froze me again and again and again for decades. I’m supposed to be unstoppable. I’m supposed to remember everything I need.

            I don’t remember all that I need to, and I certainly don’t understand all that I should.

            Can’t tell him that. Can’t tell anyone.

            “What happened to the others?” I ask, and his smile disappears. “The ones who were with us?”

            Steve walks for a little while with his hands in his coat pockets, then replies, “Clint and Scott headed stateside right away. They’ve got kids. Clint’s got a wife. No hard feelings.”

            “The girl? The Sokovian?”

            His face does something. Regret again. “Wanda—Wanda took off pretty quick. I’m still not sure what happened there. Haven’t seen anything on the news about her in a while, so I’m assuming she’s all right.” He sighs. “I _hope_ she’s all right.”

            “What about the people who weren’t with us?”

            I understand that I shouldn’t say ‘enemies’ to him. I can tell, even without exactly understanding why, that he would hate that.

            It’s another short silence before Steve replies, “Haven’t talked to them.”

            “Is this too many questions?”

            He blinks, and says, “No. No, of course not, it’s—“ He almost smiles, like he’s thinking about something, and then gives his head a little shake. “Ask whatever you want.” Steve glances at me. “Please, ask me _anything_ you want.”

            Of course, he says that and I have no idea what to ask.

            There’s some kids running at us. We automatically put our heads down, and he bumps into me. Startled—and I am not a man you want to startle—I move a little to my right, like he’s herding me out of their way. I do not care for that.

            When they’re past us, I give him a hard stare. Unapologetic, Steve says, “Didn’t you hear? Highest juvenile crime rate in Russia.”

            Bucky Barnes would have said something like, “You’re a real comedian.”

            But I’m me, whoever that is right now. So I don’t say anything at all.

 

I know him. But I don’t.

            That’s pretty much the story of my life.

            There are gaps in my memory, that’ll come as a surprise to no one. I was wiped so many times that I suppose someone could say I’m lucky I have any brain function at all. There will also be people who say it’s unfortunate that I’m still alive and should be shot for war crimes. I see both sides.

            But what I do have often comes at a distance. When I look into my memories, it’s like I’m waking up and falling asleep at a movie theatre. I open my eyes and I don’t always have context for what’s on the screen in front of me. Without context, it’s difficult to make an emotional connection.

            Not that I’m sure if I do want to make an emotional connection. That’s proven to be fairly upsetting.

            I know that Steve Rogers was Bucky Barnes’ best friend. And I’m Bucky Barnes.

            And I’m not.

            I’m the Winter Soldier.

            And I’m not.

            Am I either? Neither? Both?

            I don’t know how to force it to make sense.

            I have memories of Steve Rogers. It’s hard to revisit them because they are the ones that usually come with an emotional connection. They are the memories formed before my training, before I learned to control my emotions. Or before they were controlled for me.

            The memories I have of him are before control.

            There are four Steve Rogers in my mind. There is a little boy. He is always angry at other people in my memories, but rarely at me. There is the young man. He takes a stand for what he believes in, and we are insular, a contained unit. There is the soldier. I followed him. He gave the orders, and I followed, and I still am unsure of how that transition occurred. Then there is the hero, and that’s who is with me now. He is darker around the edges than all the others, quieter.

            The memories from the last few years are clearest. He was the return of autonomy. That was frightening. I hated him. I feared him. He was the opposite of everything that I knew.

            And yet I saved him. And yet I disobeyed direct instruction for only the second time, because I knew him.

            I tried to stay away from him. He was always looking for me. Something about that—I don’t have the memory, I don’t understand why, but the thought that he was _looking_ for me made me so incredibly upset. It seemed like…a bad joke. I don’t know why, though I have my suspicions. I have to trust my instincts. So I stayed away.

            He took my side. Even when control returned. When I was the soldier again. He saved my life, repeatedly, and he took my side. I’ve always taken people’s sides. Mine has never been a side to take. He was loyal to me above all others.

            It’s because this body was Bucky Barnes, who I am and am not. I tried to tell him to stop once. I think I said that I wasn’t worth all that he was doing, though the moment is unclear in my mind.

            Because I’m not worth it. I understand cost and damage analysis. The enhanced known as Captain America is capable of preventing world ending catastrophes. The mission has always been to bring order and peace to the majority of Earth’s inhabitants. He is a valued asset. Someone once said that I shaped a century. I cannot remember who. Steve is capable not only of shaping the world, but of saving it. He cast aside his ability to do so with all possible resources when he threw in his lot with me.

            It is sentimentality. It is weakness.

            I am his weakness.

            That doesn’t bode well for the planet.

            I have no idea who or what I am, but I am aware that Steve is a hero. That means he is predictable, and that is dangerous. The problem is, even if I know what he’s going to do, I don’t exactly understand it.

            I’m not an idiot. HYDRA has warped my moral center. I do get the basic concepts of right and wrong, but they haven’t had much place in my world. Seventy years. Five years. Ten years.

            How old am I?

            I can’t focus.

            HYDRA took care of me. No. No, they didn’t. And yes they did. I had nowhere else. They made me. They helped me become more than I was.

            There was no one taking care of me for two years. I was all by myself. That wasn’t optimal. I have difficulty on my own in the world. I tried so hard—I did my dishes, I kept the apartment clean, I tried to write down what I know. I tried to keep myself together even with all the fissures in my brain. Still, I have to admit that maybe I don’t function well on my own, if personhood is the goal.

            Steve wants to help. Because I am his weakness.

            I don’t understand.  

            I think I told him I wanted to go back into cryo because I was afraid of hurting anyone else if control returned. I think I made myself smile to prove to him that I meant it. This was a lie, if I said it. I know I said that I know my own mind, and I can’t believe I convinced anyone of that. The only thing I’m afraid of is continuing to be this confused. I ran back into cryo—I _hid_.

            Status.

            Unknown.

 

I don’t understand why he wanted to do this. It’s a risk, but he said that he needed to be around people. This was obviously untrue. My memories of this man might be chaotic, but I know that he is not a people person.

            I have to remind myself that I haven’t known him for seventy years.

            Confusion.

            I don’t want to be this muddled, so I just agree. We go to a place not far from the hotel, that’s not too well lit, and get a table near the back. We both keep our caps on, but so have some of the other men in the restaurant. It’s not fancy. Good, because I’d have no idea what to do.

            He just yawns and rubs his face with both hands when the waitress comes over, and I order the salmon for both of us, because what else would I order here? I barely look at her while I order, and she barely looks at me before walking away.

            Steve lifts his hands, and looks around. He’s wary, but seems a bit surprised that no one’s staring.

            “It’s Sakhalin,” I tell him. “No one cares about anyone else.” I think about it, then shrug. “Well, it’ll feel that way until we get to Okha. Then it really will seem like the end of the line.”

            Crack.

            I put my left hand up to my forehead. I still have my gloves on. “You okay?” Steve asks.

            I squeeze my eyes shut a moment. The ice pick feeling goes away. I blink a few times, and glance out the blurry window. “Yeah. My head just…hurts sometimes.”

            When I’m able to look at him again, he has his eyes on me hard. He drops them, then tugs at his sweater.

            He said I could ask anything, so I do. “Why are we here?”

            “You chose Sakhalin, buddy. I thought I’d be in Hokkaido by now.”

            “I mean why are we at a restaurant?”

            “I know that’s what you meant.”

            “It puts us at risk of exposing herself.”

            “Certainly wouldn’t want to expose ourselves.”

            When he uses that tone, I know that Bucky would have laughed at whatever he said. I know that much, but I can’t laugh because he wants me to do it naturally but I’m not capable of that. I just wait it out, giving him a blank gaze. He’ll probably think there’s nothing going on in my head, but there’s always something going on in here, and that’s the problem.

            Steve sobers, and says, “Restaurant. Right.” He has a difficult time maintaining eye contact. I was trained out of that discomfort. I can stare at a person as long as I need to. Steve folds his hands together on the table, and shrugs. “When’s the last time you and I sat down and just talked?”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Yeah, it’s not exactly my strong suit either,” he says, glancing around as if there’s someone who could help him. There’s not. There’s just me. Steve frowns at me. “You and I haven’t—there hasn’t been a time since—you were back, that just you and I…talked. Alone. Without an immediate crisis.”

            “We spoke a few times in Wakanda.”

            “You always made sure there were other people around. The whole three days you were there before you went back into cryo.”

            He has his vulnerable points, but he’s not a moron. I avoided being alone with him like the plague. He let me, though. He’s Captain America and I had one arm and I was injured. He could have insisted we speak then. I’m not sure why this has to happen now.

            He said I could ask questions. He wanted me to ask questions. “Why do you want to talk?”

            I see frustration on his face, but he disguises it, or at least he thinks he does. “I…okay. Consider it from my perspective.” Steve considers his answer before speaking. Like he’s trying to speak in a language I’ll understand. “I don’t have many people who have known me as anything other than—who I’ve been the last few years. And what I have been maybe wasn’t how I hoped I’d turn out. Then all of a sudden there’s someone who’s known me from the beginning, and maybe I want to…talk. About some things. Does that make any sense?”

            “No.”

            Steve juts his jaw to the right, and rephrases, “I was a superhero and my childhood best friend returned from the dead. I’m trying to figure out what that means.”

            “Okay. Why don’t you just say it like that next time instead of going in circles?”

            “Because it’s a weird situation, Buck, and I don’t know what to do.” He grimaces, and murmurs, “I should have never let you go back into cryo.”

            That hits me the wrong way. “ _Let_ me?” I say.

            And maybe my affect isn’t great these days, but there’s enough there that Steve knows he’s misspoken. “Not—I mean—“

            “I do not take orders from you. Or do I, Captain America?”

            “No. No, you don’t take orders from me. And I’m not Captain America.”

            I tilt my head. It’s the second time he’s said it. “What else did I miss when I was sleeping?”

            “Nothing, it’s—I’m not Captain America. I’m just Steve Rogers.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “It means I’m not a hero. It means I’m just a guy who’s done a lot of weird, big things, and I’m not interested in being anyone’s puppet anymore. No costume, no shield, no pretending to be some infallible symbol of an ideal.”

            “You have a shield,” I say. “Unless that’s a satellite dish in that bag I saw you take up to the bedroom.”

            Steve takes a moment before saying tersely, “It’s a new shield. It’s what I know how to fight with.”

            “Whose puppet were you? SHIELD’s? Or does this refer to HYDRA?”

            “No—I mean generally. Not a certain organization—well. I guess from the time I was twenty four I’ve been under some kind of operational oversight. And I’m done with that. I’m just done.”

            “So you wish to operate without any oversight.”

            “Yes—“ He stops, and takes a breath, and tries to speak again. He can’t.

            “I thought you didn’t like bullies.”

            The glare I get is very familiar. His face is different, but the eyes are the same. Steve Rogers has been giving me that stubborn, angry look since he was six years old. “I’m not a bully.”

            I shrug. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

            “It matters to me.”

            “What’s a bully except a person acting violently outside of conventional norms?”

            “They’re trying to hurt people.”

            “You try to hurt people.”

            “Not innocent people.”

            “And you decide who’s innocent and who’s guilty.”

            “No—gosh, Buck, I didn’t, uh—didn’t expect the third degree here.”

            “You said you wanted to talk, and that you wanted me to ask questions. I was doing what you asked.”

            He scratches under his cap, and admits, “Yes. I did tell you to do that.”

            He’s giving me a look like I’ve surprised him, so I say, “I’m fucked up, but I’m still self-aware.”

            Steve grins, then says, “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

            “You felt all right making decisions for me though.”

            “Well—“

            “Not that I don’t like this arm. It’s a very nice arm. But no one consulted me about taking me outside of Wakanda. And no one sure as hell consulted me about the flight path.”

            “We had to—“

            “Would you like to hear how I would have staged our exit?”

            “Depends on the body count.” He cringes, and says, “Sorry, that wasn’t funny.”

            It doesn’t matter. I’m not offended. I kill people. It’s what I do. “We would go through South America.”

            “South America,” he echoes, taken aback.

            “Of course South America. To the western coast and then up along the Pacific until we reached Canada, if that’s where you wanted to go. The countries that want to kill us are primarily in North America, Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. The only continents that don’t really want us dead are South America and Australia. And I don’t know Australia all that well. My experience would have gotten us through South America just fine.”

            “Do I want to know what you were doing in South America?”

            “About half experimentation by scientists and the other half was political assassinations.”

            “I’d say I was surprised. Only I’m not.”

            I push my cap off my head and toss it on the table. I comb my fingers through my hair a few times, trying to keep it out of my face. For a moment, I look down at the table. Fork, knife, spoon. Glass of water. A napkin that looks like it’s already been used.

            “I don’t know what you want from me,” I say.

            “That…is a difficult thing to respond to.”

            “Why?”

            “Because—there’s a difference between what I want and what’s realistic, and it’s not fair to you to expect you to do what I want.”

            “This is obfuscation. Reply to the original inquiry.”

            Steve opens up his hands, and says, “What I want is to have a conversation with an old friend who doesn’t look at me like the fate of the world rests on my shoulders. I want to talk to someone who doesn’t expect me to be someone I’m not. But expecting you to be that person—for all I know, that’s expecting _you_ to be someone you’re not. So I’m in a bind.”

            “If you want to talk to someone, you should talk to Sam. His file said that’s a thing he does.”

            With a sigh, Steve says, “Sam’s one of my closest friends. I trust him with my life. But he’s put up with a hell of a lot from me, and I think if I open my mouth one more time to try and put my problems on him, he’s going to sock me in the jaw. And he’d be right to. I just—“ He puts his tongue to the top of his teeth, trying to think of how to phrase things. “For me, it’s not seventy years. It’s five years. It’s five years since I thought you died. I don’t—I don’t know how time seems to you. But for me, it was just three years thinking you were dead. So when I look at you….”

            “You see him.”

            That was the incorrect thing to say. It makes Steve still. He nods a bit to himself, then just nods wistfully. “Yeah. Guess I do. That’s not your fault. Sorry, I’m rambling—“

            “I do remember you,” I say, though I’m not sure if I should. The lines are already very blurred here, and opening this door will only make it worse.

            It’s always strange, seeing hope in a tired man’s eyes. “Yeah?”

            “Most of the time it’s like…watching things that happened to someone else. But sometimes I feel it too. My head kind of—splits when it happens. Hurts.”

            “So you don’t want to talk about it.”

            “I’m not averse to pain,” I say, slightly insulted.

            Steve doesn’t like that, but he wants to know, more than he’s concerned over my conditioning. “What do you remember?” Before I can speak, he opens his mouth again, and I wait for him. “What you actually remember. Not what you’ve read.”

            Definitely not a moron. “It might be difficult to separate. I read a lot after the mission failure. I went to the exhibit at the Smithsonian. I’m the only one who died.”

            “You didn’t die, pal.”

            That’s a matter of semantics. “There were books about you that had chapters about me. I am always Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers’ childhood friend who died in action.”

            Interesting. People usually only look that way when they’re stabbed. Steve pulls a shallow breath through his nose. “That’s—not how it was. People make it—people get things wrong. They write books, and they don’t tell the real story. They make it seem like one person did everything—“

            “You singlehandedly prevented the Red Skull from attacking America, didn’t you?”

            “It was only singlehanded once I got on that plane with him.”

            “But that’s what people remember. And all I’m remembered for is dying. And how that’s part of your story.”

            He just shakes his head. He still can’t look at me.

            “I don’t care.”

            “I _do_ ,” he says angrily. Those huge hands furl into fists on top of the table, and I watch to see if he’s going to do anything with them. “Your life—you’re not a footnote in a story, you’re _you_ , you’re my best friend—I’m _your_ best friend, that’s how it was supposed to—“

            Steve cuts himself off, too pissed to continue.

            Curious, I ask, “Are we friends?”

            He stares at me a moment, and I’m not sure if I’ve said something wrong again. His hands loosen, and he says, “I—hope we can be.”

            I nod. It’s a peculiar notion.

            He’s dead. They told me he was dead.

            No. No, I’m dead. I died.

            “Buck?”

            I blink at him, and say quietly, “I would be open to that.” I get cold. I don’t like it. “Can we please not speak for a few minutes?”

            He nods, and I jam my cap back onto my head, hunching my shoulders.

 

“Romanoff,” I say.

            We’ve come to an agreement. We will take turns making inquiries. I want to know what our current status is. He wants to know what I remember. We’re supposed to stop if it puts me in an inordinate amount of pain. I’m not thrilled with the arrangement, but I need data if we’re going to survive this mess they’ve put me in.

            Mouth full of salmon, Steve says, “God only knows where Natasha is.” He has a swig of water instead of the vodka I ordered, and shrugs. “I keep expecting her to turn up out of the blue looking like we’re all idiots and she knows exactly what to do and what’s going on, but that hasn’t happened. Guess she’s got bigger fish to fry.” He points at his plate. “This is really good.”

            It’s adequate. It’s just food. “We have no way of contacting her?”

            “Not at the moment. I know Clint can get in touch with her. Getting hold of Clint right now, though—“ Steve makes a face. “Not ideal. We’ve burned some bridges.”

            “What’d you do to him?”

            “Nothing. He picked sides. He picked our side, and that means fall out. The man has three kids, a wife—he _used_ to have a house. Now all of them are in deep cover, thanks to yours truly. He doesn’t want to hear from me for a while.”

            I don’t really see how that matters—if we need these people, we’ll use the resources. Steve doesn’t seem to feel the same way, so I’ll leave it be for now. “In…Berlin? Romanoff. She seemed to think I should know her. Do I know her?”

            Steve looks at me over his glass. “Well, you’ve shot her twice.”

            The causeway. Yes. When was the other time? “Right. 1986.”

            Steve stops mid sip, then gives me a friendly smile. “I think you might have your dates mixed up there, pal.”

            I nod. It’s certainly possible. I’m good with facts, places, but memories of my own life are much more difficult to pin down.

            “So,” Steve says, “how did we meet?”

            I sit a moment. James Buchanan Barnes met Steven Grant Rogers in 1924. Childhood friends. Barnes frequently came to Rogers’ aid when—

            That’s not what he asked.

            I flex the metal fingers as I search through the images I have of us as children. “In an alley. There were…three other boys. You were all flustered because they said you were a bastard and your mother was a whore.”

            Steve pauses, and says, “Well, that’s certainly not in the history books.”

            “Did I misremember?”

            “Nope. Spot on.”

            “Was your mother a whore?” Before Steve can even react, I lift a hand. “No. Wait. I remember. She was a nurse. She had an accent. Irish. She was Irish. Not a whore. Though it would have been fine if she was.”

            “She’s buried next to my dad, remember?”

            A little. “I came home with you after the funeral. You couldn’t find your key. You _never_ had your key. Your father….I can’t remember.”

            “He was killed in the war. I mean—the First World War. Mustard gas.”

            “Was he actually your father?”

            The gaze I get is almost cold. “He was my father,” Steve says levelly.

            “You looked like your mother, though.”

            “You looked like your dad,” he says, and it feels evasive.

            I think enough time has elapsed that it’s my turn to ask another question. “Was there any progress with the deprogramming?”

            He purses his mouth, then gives his head a brisk shake. “Nothing like a quick fix. It’s really just…I talked to people. I talked to a lot of people. And the answer they always gave me was the same. There’s no way to just flip a switch and it goes away. They said that it would happen the same way the words got there in the first place.” I balk, and Steve says quickly, “Not—Christ. No. They would have to work on it for a long time. Talking to you. Therapy, Buck.”

            “Who the hell has the time for _that_?” I reply.

            “Yeah, I didn’t figure you’d be too thrilled about their answer.” Steve picks at his beets for a moment, and I can see he has something to confess. I’m not good at reading people, but this guy is like an open book. How is he still alive, even with all his physical advantages? “Buck—I’m a real dope. It wasn’t until she was gone that I realized we should have tried.”

            I narrow my eyes.

            “Wanda,” Steve says. “A couple times—people said to me that maybe we should ask her to try. To go in your head and—take out what they put in. But it felt…invasive. And she doesn’t exactly have control of her powers all the time, and the only time I’ve ever seen her put a thought _into_ somebody’s head it was like a goddamn nightmare. I underestimated her, though. I thought—“ He shrugs, and says, “Messed that one up, buddy.”

            He seems to feel fairly guilty about it, so I just say, “Understood.”

            If they’d woken me up and told me that someone else made by HYDRA was going to go into my head and tinker, I would have snapped that girl’s neck. I think she knew it too. The few times we passed, she basically pressed herself against the opposite wall. I knew it wasn’t fear. I’d seen her fight. I think she could look inside me and see what was really in here.

            I wonder if I’m why she left.

            “No one knows the words,” Steve says. “They weren’t recorded, there’s no more physical copies—“

            “Yeah,” I say, “we’re obviously safe as houses.”

            “Listen—where we’re going—it won’t be a possibility for you to go back into cryo. So we’re just going to have to deal with this.”

            We.

            Hmm.

            My face must have done something, because he says, “My turn. I say surrender--?”

            “Surrender, hell I say,” I reply automatically. He smiles, losing some of that tiredness around the eyes. These are the same eyes he has had for nearly a century. This is the same body I’ve had for nearly a century. “Howling Commandos.”

            “You remember much about that?”

            I nod a few times. My lips twitch before I start pushing out words. “Dugan. Falsworth. Mor—“ I close my eyes briefly. “Morita. Jim Morita from Fresno. Der—Dernier? And….”

            It’s there. It’s almost there. It’s like an open door that I can look through, if I just lean forward.

            Steve prompts, “Jones—“

            Crack.

            I have to put both hands to my forehead. This time it’s like an axe, not an ice pick, going from between my eyes, all the way to the back of my skull. There’s a voice, a man’s voice, teasing and loose, laughing, _You must be crazy, soldier_.

            It’s _my_ voice. It can’t be my voice, I don’t sound like that. I don’t laugh.

            He’s speaking to me. The other guy. Steve. Jesus, of course Steve, I know it’s Steve, but that was really fucking unpleasant. “—okay, buddy? You need me to—“

            “Let’s not talk about the war,” I say, and my voice is hoarse.

            Steve settles back in his seat, still looking like the picture of concern. The expression frustrates me. People don’t look at me like that. It is very close to pity. I don’t want pity. I don’t _need_ pity. I am a soldier. I am self-sufficient.

            This unit does not require _concern_.

            Calm down. Calm down. You are not a unit. You are a person.

            I slam the vodka in front of me down my throat, then pour another shot and do that one too. Steve asks, “Can you get drunk? I can’t.”

            “No, but I think I need to pretend for a second.” I give my head a hard shake. “God _damn_.”

            “Knocked something big loose?”

            “You could say that.” I empty the glass again and keep pouring myself drinks. “Peggy,” I say, needing Steve to talk for a while. “Whatever happened to Peggy?”

            I’m so busy getting this useless alcohol down my throat that I don’t notice how long he takes to answer. “She…passed away this year.”

            Not even so much as a tingle. Fucking HYDRA and their need to meddle with every single _piece_ of me. I say, “What do you mean, this year?”

            “In the….” He clears his throat, and I realize that he’s pretending not to be upset. “While the Accords were happening. While things were going wrong. She died.”

            I blink, and say, “She was still _alive_?” He looks like I punched him, and I don’t know why. “Was she frozen too or something?”

            “N-no. No, she just…lived.”

            “Good for her,” I say, and it’s kind of a surprise to realize that I mean it.

            Steve’s mouth turns up a little at both sides. “Yeah.” He thinks a moment, then nods. “Yeah. She married a great guy. Beautiful kids. Grandkids. Her niece isn’t too bad either.”

            There’s something in his voice. “Niece.”

            Sheepish, he says, “Uh—you know the woman who helped us out? Blond? Gorgeous? With the CIA? The, uh…one I kissed?”

            “Uh huh.” And it honestly takes me a second to connect the two, which is embarrassing. “That’s Peggy Carter’s _niece_?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Jesus, she would have _killed_ you.”

            Steve looks stricken. “No. Really? You think—do you think so?”

            “Didn’t she shoot you once after you kissed another broad?”

            “She didn’t _shoot_ me, she shot _at_ me—“

            “And you think she’d be fine with you making time with her niece.” I shake my head. “I don’t get much about people, but I don’t think you ever learned _anything_ about women.”

            Holding a breath, Steve says, “Yeah.” He blows it out. “Ain’t that the truth.” He stabs a beet. “Besides, it’s…I just kissed her the once. We haven’t even….”

            “Fucked.”

            “Jesus, Buck. I was going to say, I haven’t even seen her in person since then. We talked a few times, but I’m a fugitive and she works for the American government. It’s not exactly an easy thing to make work.” He sticks the beet in his mouth. “If it is working. Or not. God, I don’t know. It hasn’t really been a priority.”

            “No. Survival is the priority.”

            “And then what?”

            I do not understand. “How do you mean?”

            “We survive,” says Steve. “Then what?”

            The inquiry makes my skin crawl. I don’t _know_. I can only focus on the present and try to make sense of what has already happened to me. I need to work on a day by day basis.

            “Don’t worry, pal,” Steve says, “I don’t have an answer either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Canada Day! Make a Canuck a happy guy by leaving a comment (suddenly all those extra U's in my writing are making sense to people).  
> 


	7. Night

_I can’t believe it actually happened._

_I mean—isn’t this the kind of thing a guy dreams of? Sure. She’s gorgeous. I’ve had a crush on her—all the guys in the neighbourhood have had a crush on her—for about as long as I’ve noticed that girls were something I wanted and not something to make fun of. I’m here in her room, buttoning up my shirt, and she’s on the other side of the bed, rolling up her stockings, and she has her back to me, and I can tell she’s not happy._

_It kind of puts a damper on things._

_I fold my collar carefully, and ask, “Did I do something wrong?”_

_She drops her head. Her hair is down. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever seen her hair not pinned up or in a scarf. It cascades down her back in beautiful gold brown curls, and I’ve had my hands in them when I kissed her. When she kissed me back. Girls my age are shy about kissing, or they’re about as eager as I am and we end up laughing while we do it. But she kissed me like she knew what she was doing. Like we had all the time in the world._

_She looks back over her shoulder, and the shades are drawn so no one will see us, and there’s not a lot of light. Still, she looks like one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, and maybe it’s because she’s sad._

_“No, sweetheart. You’re not the one who did something wrong.”_

_She stands up, in her slip and stockings, and even though I’ve seen her without a stitch of clothing, I think I might like her even more like this._

_I know we did something wrong. I know it was wrong. But she asked me to come in. And good God almighty, she is one gorgeous piece of work._

_She comes over to me, with a faint smile on her mouth. “Look at your hair.” My hands go to it immediately, and I blush. I’m always so careful about my hair, and she’s the most gorgeous woman in Vinegar Hill, and she’s taken something from me that I never gave anyone before, and I don’t want to look like a slob. She laughs a little at me, then reaches up. I’m taller than her. I’m taller than all the women in the neighbourhood now._

_I close my eyes as I feel her fingernails on my scalp._

_I wanted. She wanted. So we._

_She combs my hair with her fingernails, then lets me go. I open my eyes, and she nods towards the door. “I’ll walk you out,” she says softly._

_I do and don’t want to go. I want to run across the street to Steve’s and tell him everything, and I sure as hell don’t want to be here when her husband gets home. But I feel wide open, and dizzy for her. I’ve never felt like this about anything before, except maybe the night of the Spring Formal. Is this what it’s like every time? Or just because it’s the first?_

_I go to the front door. She helps me into my jacket, and that makes me feel older. Like a man, and she’s my girl, sending me off for the day. But she’s thirty and someone else’s, and I’m sixteen and I get the score._

_She turns me around, running a few fingers over my shirt buttons. She doesn’t look up at my eyes, and I wish she would, because they’re such a beautiful blue, and she didn’t have a problem looking at me earlier._

_“We’re not going to do this again,” she says quietly._

_“Okay,” I murmur._

_I accept it. I don’t push her on it. This was plenty, and what the hell does a dame like this want with a kid like me anyways? I still can’t believe it happened in the first place._

_I know I shouldn’t care, but I do, so I ask, “Was it…good?” It was good for me, but come on, it was my first time. I’m usually happy if a girl will let me go up her shirt._

_Those blue eyes turn back to my face, and she gives her head a shake, but it’s one of appreciation. “James Barnes,” she says, and I don’t feel like a kid when she says that. “You’re gonna make a lot of girls_ very _happy. And one day, one girl very lucky.”_

_I can’t help myself. I slip my hands around her, my fingers on the silky fabric, against the curve of her lower back, and I kiss her. She runs the back of her fingers against the underside of my jaw. This moment is warm and soft and I am sad._

_I understand for the first time that this is how you kiss when you’re saying goodbye._

_She moves away from me, and I let her go. With a crooked smile, she pushes back my hair one more time, then says, “Goodbye, sweetheart.”_

_She unlocks the door, and I nod. I’m not so dumb or addled that I don’t peek my head out first, and have a look both ways before slipping out into the hallway. I walk towards the back of the building without a glance back, knowing how people talk in this place, knowing her husband might beat the shit out of me come Monday, or Christ forbid her._

_It’s not until I’m outside that I stop. I stand here in the evening chill, hands in my pockets, and I look back at the building. I’m supposed to be different now. In a way, I think I probably am. When I tell this story, I’ll tell it like I’m supposed to, like I was in charge and it happened how I wanted it to and everything was perfect._

_It was perfect. But I didn’t know what I wanted. She knew._

_So I think, in one way or another, I’ll love Emily McConnell forever._

 

This is something I started doing in Bucharest. It’s unwise, and they got all my workbooks when they took me down there, but I find that it helps.

            I waited until Steve was gone before taking out the paper and pen. He’s next door with Sam. I have to share a room with Steve because I think he believes I might just take off in the night. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. Steve is taking Sam food and having a discussion with him. I can hear Sam’s raised voice through the wall, but I can’t distinguish the words.

            This is what I have so far:

            _HYDRA remnants? WSC. AIM—AK? Modog? Zemo. Xbones. Watchdogs. Corporation. SHIELD. UN._

            Sometimes it helps to see things on paper instead of just letting them bounce around my head. There’s never any telling what facts I’ll remember or not. Could I tell Steve which backroads to take in Primorsky Krai? Sure. Do I know the road to Okha and how to get past the guys who’ll try and stop us without a permit? Not a problem.

            Can I remember after seventy years of being embedded in their ranks who might want to kill Captain America? That’s a little less accessible.

            I wonder if Steve thinks that people care, him claiming he’s not Captain America anymore. They really won’t. They’ll still come for him.

            Or me. If they’re coming for me, then I’m not sure I have enough paper.

            Maybe they’re coming for Sam. I don’t know much about Sam. He was an Avenger. He must have enemies. But he joined them after I ceased being in the loop, if you can call what I was in the loop. Steve assumes that the target is really he or I, but there’s three of us here. I’m not willing to count Sam out as the main target, even if we’re more obvious ones. You should never underestimate the people who aren’t out front.

            I was underestimated. I’m still here.

            There’s a long, slick streak of anger that I don’t understand working its way up from my guts. I think of snow and the feeling gets worse. So I brush my hand over the blank parts of the page, over and over. Paper calms me down.

            I was in art school. After I completed my primary education. I went to art school with Steve, and then I worked, and sometimes we would take art classes together. He was good at drawing. Me….

            I made things.

            Setting aside the paper, I get up and pull the bag out from under the bed. I check the insides again. My resources are limited. I could go out now and replenish, but if Steve came back and I wasn’t here, I think he’d be stupid enough to go out looking for me. I have to wait.

            I hear the door next door close, and quickly push the bag back under the bed. I grab the page.

            Then I pause.

            Ally. He is my ally.

            The door unlocks. Steve smiles, almost limp with exhaustion. “Hey.” I nod to him. I’m sitting on my bed. I guess it’s late. I’m not tired, but I should sleep. Steve shrugs out of his coat, and tosses his hat on top of the TV. He sees that I’m uncomfortable, and says, “Whatcha got there?”

            I hold out the sheet of paper, not meeting his eyes. “I compiled a list of people and organizations that might have the means or motivation to kill you. It’s not complete and it might not be current. There’s the gaps in my memory. Sorry.”

            “No,” Steve says. “No, don’t be sorry.” He comes over, and takes the paper from my hand. Sitting down on the bed, he looks at it a moment, and I see his face change. “Huh.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing, just—your handwriting.”

            “What’s wrong it?”

            “Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s the same.” Steve clears his throat, and starts to go through the list. He rubs the back of his head as he does it, and I can see the veins that run along his incredible arm. “So—HYDRA. We’re fairly certain we got the last of the bases. Individual agents—no way to track them all down. And I don’t think that after Strucker there’s anyone left with enough juice to do anything on the level of what they hit Wakanda with. World Security Council—“ He reaches out without looking. “Pen?”

            I give it to him.

            He underlines it. “I think they’re at the top of the list. They were ready to detonate a nuclear weapon in New York City to try and stop the Chitauri. They wouldn’t sneeze at murdering a few hundred Wakandans if they thought it would get my attention.”

            “Which it did.”

            “Of course it did,” he replies, and he doesn’t see the problem with that. Master tactician. Does he not understand cost analysis? A crease appears between his brows, and Steve says, “AIM. AK.”

            “Yes, AIM.”

            “What’s AIM?”

            He doesn’t know about them? “Advanced Idea Mechanics.”

            Those blue eyes light with recognition. “AIM, right, Tony—right.” He lifts the page. “AK. Aldrich…Killian?”

            I nod. That’s it. “Yes.”

            “Well, you don’t have to worry about Killian. He is very dead.”

            “What about AIM?”

            “Should—I be worried about AIM?”

            “Only if you’re worried about the HYDRA agents who infiltrated the organization.”

            He stares at me a moment, then circles AIM a few times. “Okay, let’s keep them on the list. I’m not even sure if they still exist after the thing with the President, but let’s not take any risks.” He looks slightly amused by the next one. “Who or what is a modog?”

            “I don’t know,” I say. “I have the name, but I don’t even think that’s right.”

            “That’s okay. We’ll table it. Doesn’t ring any bells for me either. Zemo—he might be in a box at the JCTC, but he’s still dangerous. Thing is—he did everything solo. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who plays well with others.” Steve’s eyes go blank a moment, and he shrugs. “Besides. He got what he wanted.”

            The Avengers, torn apart. And I was the weapon he used to do it. Now there’s a master tactician.

            “Crossbones—he’s dead.” Steve strikes a line through that. “Watchdogs. Right wing terrorist group, if I recall. Not too fond of enhanced.”

            “They _hate_ you.”

            “Well, I hate bullies, so I guess we’re a match made in heaven. Okay, we’ll look into them.” He underlines that, and asks, “Which corporation?”

            “No, The Corporation. They’re…an organized crime syndicate. They have enhanced. They approached me in Belarus, after DC. Asked me to join. I wasn’t interested. They were willing to pay me a billion dollars for information on you.”

            “Thanks for not selling me out.”

            “I don’t need a billion dollars.”

            Steve sighs at the next one on the list. “I don’t…I don’t think SHIELD was involved in this. They’ve done plenty in the past that I wasn’t—fond of, but murdering innocent civilians—“

            “Yes, I’m sure SHIELD is very concerned for the lives of three hundred African civilians.”

            “What’s that mean?”

            “I mean I’ve killed people in Africa for seventy years and SHIELD’s never cared before. SHIELD only ever lifted their head if we were operating in Europe or North America.”

            Steve sets his jaw, and says, “That’s not how I work.”

            I thumb over my shoulder at the wall and reply, “Should we ask Sam if he thinks SHIELD gives a shit about Africa? Because I’ll bet his answer might be a little less oblivious.”

            Steve just shakes his head and says, “Not SHIELD,” and crosses it off his list. Blind. It’ll stay on the list I have in my mind. “The UN. I don’t know. They’re not as blood thirsty as the WSC has ever been.”

            “You sided against them.”

            “They know you’re not the one who—“

            “You’re sure they care?”

            He grimaces a moment, then says, “I’m putting a question mark next to them.”

            He looks pretty grim. “What?”

            “Oh, just—it’s strange to have this many enemies, and not many people on my side.”

            I tell him, “You get used to it.”

           

I wait two and a half hours after we’ve turned the lights off. He pretended to be asleep for two hours, waiting to see what I would do, but it turned into real sleep about a half hour ago. I’ve lain here with my eyes closed to be sure he’s not faking, and I don’t think he is.

            Silent—and I do mean silent—I sit up. I wrote the note earlier while he was in the shower. I drop it on the bed and get up, watching him the entire time. It will let him know what time I’ll be back by, should he wake before I return. He doesn’t stir.

            Steve sleeps curled up, with the blankets pulled up to almost his eyes. Just like when he was a kid. I don’t know why, but that gets me. His conditioning hasn’t changed that in him.

            When I sleep, it is flat on my back and I don’t care if there’s sheets.

            I walk soundlessly across the room, hooking my fingers into my boots and the jacket, then unlock the door. He still doesn’t move, and the rhythm of his breath doesn’t change.

            I slip outside quickly, closing the door after me. Stepping into the boots, I pull on the coat, then walk away from the hotel as quickly as possible. I don’t bother with the gloves. I’m better off without them.

My memory of this place doesn’t fail. I’ve literally gone less than two blocks, and two boys who look like they weigh about fifty kilos apiece turn from where they were pretending to talk against a dark wall. The smaller one points a little Makarov that’s probably older than his father at my face, and the Korean one has a P-96 which actually looks like it’s in really good condition.

            The little one says, “Give us—“

            I grab the Makarov pistol because it’s the one closest to my metal hand, pushing his hand upwards. I punch the Korean kid hard enough in the throat that his pistol jumps out of his grasp, and I catch it out of the air.

            Ripping the Makarov out of the little guy’s hands, I pitch it over my shoulder, and fix him with a look. He glances down at his friend, who’s grabbing his throat and kicking at the ground. The small one tries to back away from me, but he trips over his own feet and falls flat on his back.

            I swoop down on him, then hold my metal hand in front of his face. He goes absolutely horrified, and gasps, “Soldier.” He pisses himself too.

            I say, “I need to talk to someone in charge.”

           

If I ever planned on being back in this part of the world again, I would definitely do business with Matvei. He’s eighteen, not easily frightened, and he gets the score.

            He nods a few times, and says, “Yeah, I can get that for you in—how soon do you need it?”

            We’re sitting in his mother’s kitchen. He wears jeans and a hoodie with paint splattered across it, not much bigger than Steve was at his age. But after ten minutes of talking to him, I know he’s the real deal.

“Immediately.”

            “Immediately like this second or immediately like in six hours.”

            “I have—“ I glance at the clock over his head. “An hour and a half.”

            The kid shrugs. “Hour and a half is plenty of time.”

            “So what do you want?” I say, because I know how this game is played too.

            Matvei inhales deeply, like I’m asking him a difficult question. “I think that if I told you what I needed, you’d think I was insulting you.”

            “We’re doing business. If you need it, it’s important enough.”

            Tapping the ash off his cigarette, he says, “I’ve got a competitor. Rostislav. He’s an idiot and he’s going to get arrested. Even here, he’s going to get arrested, and then we’re all fucked because he’ll give up any name he can think of. Haven’t been able to get at him because he hired bodyguards from the mainland. I was going to just blow up his house, but if it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle for you.”

            I shrug. “Where is he?”

            “About six blocks from here. Again, I don’t mean to insult you with the request. I’m small time. For now. This would mean a great deal for me.”

            “So long as you don’t mention my name. I need to get out of here without anyone knowing I was here to begin with.”

            “Understood.”

            I nod back over my shoulder, to where the two kids are sitting in the living room. The Korean kid is still coughing. “Am I going to have to worry about those two?”

            His eyes slide past me, and without skipping a beat, he gives his head a shake. “No,” he says simply, and I get it. Putting his cigarette in the ashtray, Matvei leans forward, resting his skinny arms on his thighs. “You come through here again, I hope you’ll think of me first.”

            “Agreed.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it. He’s got a grip about twice as strong as you’d expect from a kid his size.

            Getting to his feet, Matvei says, “Give me an hour, I’ll have what you need.”

            I push myself up too. “If you give me that address, I’ll be back in forty five minutes.”

            Nodding, he picks up a pen and scrap of paper. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he says as he writes, “you’ll let him know Matvei sends his regards.”

            I take the slip, and say, “No trouble at all.”

            He smiles at me for the first time since we showed up on the doorstep, and for a moment, he doesn’t look like a sociopath. “Thank you, soldier,” he says, with a little bow of the head.

            I fold the paper into my hand and leave the house with the Korean kid’s pistol stashed in my pocket.

 

When I come in, Steve’s lying flat on his back. I nod to him. It’s still plenty dark outside. It’s only four in the morning.

            “Took a walk?” he asks.

            “It’s beautiful here this time of year,” I reply, pushing off my boots. I drop the coat onto the table, then walk back to bed, leaving my clothes on. I’m finally ready to sleep.

            “Get into trouble?”

            “Yep,” I say, and lay down. “Five six, black hair. Green eyes.”

            “Seriously?”

            “I’m not all machine.”

            I hear Steve’s soft snort behind me. “Guess some things never change. You were always coming in at all hours on account of some girl.” I settle in, letting my eyes shut. “Hey—do you remember Emily McConnell?”

            “No,” I say, and I yawn. “Who’s that?”

            I’m falling asleep quickly, because that is how I was trained. I don’t notice the pause. “Nobody special. Get some sleep, Buck.”

            I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make the world go round--or at least, they make writers slightly giddy.


	8. The Guard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember how I said some things might make more sense if you've seen Iron Man 3?  
> No reason. Just tossing that out there.

_The soldier stands still. He does not need to be in constant motion, like most people._

_Like this man who has been moving practically from the moment he stepped into the room. His hair is a little longer than the soldier’s, but blond. He looks American, well-tanned and wearing clothes that probably cost as much as the weapon his handler is here to buy from him. Even when his body is unmoving, his brain is obviously always working, eyes taking it all in._

_He’s standing less than a foot away from the soldier, inspecting him from top to bottom with amused curiosity. “Decades,” he echoes, showing off a glint of teeth._

_“Well, he has not been in constant use,” the handler says._

_“No, of course not.” He has his hands in his pockets, bending forward to look at the arm._

_The soldier gazes forward. From his peripheral vision he sees the seller’s guard. The man’s head is shaved and he’s splayed out on the window sill. Every few seconds he snaps the gum in his mouth loudly. If the soldier ever did such a thing, he would be wiped about five minutes later. They would think he had gone mad._

_“Obviously not the original design,” says the seller._

_“It has been upgraded several times. And it has, of course, taken a minimal amount of damage over the years that needed to be repaired.”_

_The soldier’s eyes shift for a split second to the right. His handler is the shortest man in the room, balding and bearded and unassuming. He’s making small talk. He is good at making transactions. The soldier is here if the seller proves difficult, under the pretense of being a bodyguard. HYDRA requires this technology. His orders are to level the building if the seller does not comply._

_“Fascinating,” the seller breathes, straightening back up. Something about him is artificial. The soldier cannot tell what, but the seller wears his body like a weapon. So the soldier remains on alert. The seller smirks, and asks, “He always wear that mask?”_

_“Yes,” says the handler. “He bites.”_

_Jutting out his jaw, the seller says offhandedly, “What would you take to part with him?”_

_The soldier is not insulted. It’s not the first time anyone has asked. His handler smiles faintly, and answers, “You know that saying, everything has its price?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“It is a lie.” His handler looks like a school professor, but the soldier knows he has six kills with his bare hands._

_The seller takes it well, and claps the soldier on the arm. As he speaks, the soldier stares down at his hand. “Well, if you’re ever interested, we’re doing some_ very _interesting things with regenerating damaged tissue. In case you ever get tired of this Soviet steam punk—thing, you have going on.”_

_He lifts his hand, and the soldier looks him square in the eyes. He is not HYDRA. If they were not here for business, the soldier would kill him. He will certainly kill him later if the transaction is not a success._

_The seller smiles with teeth that are too white, and says, “Much as I would love to have a closer look, I know that’s not what you’re here for. I’ll admit, your offer came as a bit of a—surprise.”_

I had no idea anyone knew what I was doing _, is what he really means._ Are you a threat and how can I contain this?

_“We have common enemies,” his handler says. “I would not say that makes us friends, but it makes us curious.”_

_“Common enemies. And who would those be?”_

_“We’re aware that you’re not very fond of Tony Stark.”_

_The man’s calm exterior slips momentarily. The soldier cannot tell if the handler caught it, but the soldier certainly has. The seller is extremely displeased that they know even that much. “Plenty of people aren’t too fond of Tony Stark,” he counters, smile back in place._

_“We are not fond either,” says the handler. “Of him. Or the large green fellow. Or that man they just took out of the ice.” He folds his hands in front of himself. “Or of SHIELD.”_

_“Doesn’t sound like you’re too fond of anyone, does it.”_

_Amiably, his handler says, “There are many people in the world. I have issue with only a few.”_

_“And the people you represent….”_

_“Would not have bothered you if they were not serious about an offer. If you do, in fact, have the technology you say you have.”_

_The seller rocks back on his feet a little, then his smile spreads. “Let’s head down to R &D and see what you think. I’ll introduce you to George. I think you might have some things in common.” He glances at the soldier. “Maybe keep this one in the back. George has some strong opinions.”_

_The handler and the soldier meet eyes. Without a word being spoken, the soldier understands his orders. He lets the seller and his handler walk ahead._

_He looks up when the guard pushes himself off the window, and comes to stand before him. He is lanky and cocky and believes himself to be invulnerable. The soldier has met many like him over the years, and none of them have proven correct as to their immortality._

_The guard feints at him, and within a second the soldier has his metal hand around the other man’s throat. It is instinctual. He squeezes._

_Orange light slips into the guard’s eyes, moves under the surface of his skin. He is still unafraid. He and the soldier gaze at each other as the soldier’s temperature sensors on his hand begin to set off alarms inside his brain._

_Something about him. It’s almost like—it is almost like there’s a crack. Inside his mind, it feels like there might be a crack._

_“Boys,” says the seller, “play nice.”_

_The soldier releases the man, and the orange light disappears immediately. The soldier tilts his head. A new light appears in the guard’s eyes, and he grins crookedly. “At ease, soldier,” he purrs, snapping his gum, and saunters after the other two men._

_It is like a crack. It is like a crack in my mind._

INCORRECT.

            STATUS.

_The soldier turns and follows the others, shoulders back and eyes blank. He does what he is told._

_He is the Winter Soldier. He always does as he is told._

_The computer scientist that his handler wants to speak to is twitchy to the point of anger because of the soldier’s presence. His handler gives him leave to go outside and wait._

_They are underground. Labs have been cordoned off with plastic transparent walls. Even with that being said, the soldier observes scorch marks on the ceiling that have not been entirely removed._

_He is still unsettled from what happened upstairs. The soldier had no life before. He is only this._

_The way the guard looked at him, though, at the end—like he saw something inside that was funny instead of what there was, which was the soldier—it was incorrect. There is a dissonance._

_It seemed so familiar._

Status _._

_The transaction seems to be going well. The soldier has excellent hearing. He knows that they’re talking about a predictive algorithm that will be able to determine the choices people make. HYDRA already has something like this. The soldier is not supposed to know that. It’s fine. It will disappear with the next wipe._

_HYDRA is interested in the algorithm in case it is better than their own. The man behind their work is not so much a man as he is a mind alone. Perhaps his work could be improved._

_Logic. Order._

_Sense._

_He hears screams from down the hall. No one else seems to notice in their walled off spaces. The soldier glances towards the sound, needing to confirm that he and the handler are not under immediate threat._

_No. They’re fine. He recognizes the screams. He’s made the same noises._

_“Experiments.”_

_He makes himself look at the guard. He does not want to. Something is wrong about this man. He provokes the wrong reaction in the soldier._

_Still popping his gum, the guard stands with his hands in his back pockets. “We’re not just about mechanics. We do all kinds of interesting things down here.”_

_The soldier understands that the guard was one of the experiments. The soldier has been an experiment as well._

_The guard sizes him up a moment, then says, “Come check this out.”_

_He smacks the soldier’s arm as he passes him, heading towards one of the testing rooms. The soldier has not been touched so flippantly in more time than he can comprehend. To have it done twice in twenty minutes is aggravating._

_Nonetheless, he follows, to where the guard is holding a door open for him. He steps inside cautiously, knowing that he can punch a hole through the wall if the need arises._

_The guard goes right to a locked cupboard, using a security badge to swipe it open. “I’m wondering what you think of this.”_

_He pulls out a metal disk, about ten inches across, and tosses it to the soldier. The soldier automatically grabs it in his left hand, feeling immediately how it magnetizes to the metal. Underneath his mask, his mouth forms a thin line._

_The guard comes back to him. “Magnetic disk grenade. Not armed, or you’d be in tiny pieces right now. You need a specialized grenade launcher for it, but it’s simple enough to make. Good for automobiles.” He makes a flat surface with his hands. “You skim it along the ground, and then it attaches to the undercarriage. Then you get a big boom. Pretty nifty, huh tin man.”_

_He yanks it off the soldier’s arm, and as he does, slips a piece of paper into the soldier’s hand. The soldier turns his hand down casually, hiding it from the cameras he assumes must be everywhere._

_The guard puts the grenade back in the cupboard, and says, “Might not be for you. I always heard you were a sniper. Or you liked to get hands on.” He locks the cupboard and turns back, crooked, self-satisfied smile on his face. “Me—I always burn a little hotter.” He cocks his head, and says, “What about you, buddy? You ever burn for anything?”_

_Malfunction._

_There’s a tap on the wall. The seller is giving the guard a hard look._

_The guard opens the door with an innocent smile. “Just showing our guest some of the toys.”_

_“Were you.”_

_“Soldier,” says the handler._

_The soldier leaves the room. He almost pushes into the seller as he leaves. There has been an error._

_He gives the handler the piece of paper as soon as they have changed vehicles twice._

_The handler looks it over. At the end, his eyebrows raise for a second. “He is aware of HYDRA. He’s offering to trade us information for a great deal of money.” He lifts the paper. “A gift.”_

_The soldier glances over through his hair. It looks like the specifications for the magnetic disk grenade. He turns his eyes forward again, boring holes into the driver’s head._

_The handler crosses his legs at the knee, thinking. “I’m unsure if this is genuine or a play by that strange American. We will give it time.” Sighing softly, he looks at the diagram. “The weapon seems simple enough. And you could always use new toys. Would you like this?”_

_“No,” the soldier says._

_His handler is surprised. The soldier is asked his opinion rarely, and gives it even less. “Why not?”_

_The soldier says for the first time ever, “I need a reset.”_

_For a moment, the car is silent. When the handler speaks, his voice is firm, but the soldier can detect the fear in it. The soldier is predictable, and that is why he’s an asset. He does as he is told. This is out of the ordinary. He has malfunctioned. “As soon as we return to Moscow, we will reset you.”_

_That would mean a flight of nearly a day._

_“I need a reset,” the soldier repeats. He never has to say something twice, but he does not know how else to convey the imperative. The unit is malfunctioning._

_He does not react when the handler takes out his phone and makes a call. “Change of plan. We will be in DC in six hours. Prep the machine.”_

_The soldier shuts his eyes._

_Two months later, they put an unfamiliar weapon in his hand. They explain it to him, how the grenade will attach to the undercarriage of a vehicle._

_He is satisfied with this weapon. It will be a fine addition to his arsenal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are my life blood; without them I might perish. Or just gaze mournfully at my computer screen, whichever seems more likely in the moment.  
> But seriously, folks, James Badge Dale needs to be in all the things.


	9. The Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's Steve Rogers' birthday, let's celebrate with two chapters.

_I wake up with a jolt, gasping. I don’t go far because I’m held back by a strap._

_Oh God. Oh God._

_Where am I?_

_It’s a big blue room that’s filthy and glowing and there’s a man sitting in front of me and his uniform—is he HYDRA? Jesus Christ, is he Russian? He’s the enemy, whoever the hell he is, because he looks fine, he looks fucking_ swell _and I’m tied down._

_I thrash, and I see it._

_My arm._

_Where’s my arm? Where has my arm gone?_

_“What the fuck—“_

_I can only stare at the bruised stump with the big ugly stitches across it. I can’t get my breath. I’m hyperventilating. My arm. Oh God. I’ve lost my arm._

_I fell._

_Steve._

_Jesus Christ, where is Steve?_

_“When I ask your name, you will say_ soldat _.”_

_The guy in the uniform with the goatee and no hair is so calm and I can’t believe this is happening again, not after Zola, not after—_

_He’ll come. I know he’ll come._

_Calm down, Bucky. Calm down. He’ll come._

_The man looks at me steadily and says, “What is your name?”_

_I swallow, and I’m shaking. But I’m no coward, down an arm or not, back in these sick fucks’ clutches or not, so I do the exact same thing I did last time. “Sergeant!” I bark out. “James! Buchanan Barnes! 3—“_

_He looks past me and says, “Shock him.”_

 

 

I wake up but I don’t open my eyes. Both Sam and Steve are in the room, talking quietly, likely in the eventuality that I do return to consciousness.

            “We could—you know what we could do.”

            Steve sighs, and says, “I don’t know if he’d…I think maybe I burned that bridge, Sam.”

            “Well, I didn’t burn it. If you’re worried about talking to him. I could reach out.”

            “Not yet.” I hear someone chewing. Steve speaks through it, so it’s Sam who’s eating. “We’ll follow his lead for now. He knows the terrain better than we ever could.”

            “No kidding. Because that’s not terrifying.” There’s the scrape of a fork on the bottom of a food container, and Sam says curiously, “Do you think he dreams?”

            I open my eyes, and reply, “I don’t.”

            They’re sitting on Steve’s bed with the food between them. Sam immediately goes cautious—I give him shit, but he’s smarter than Steve in that regard—and Steve of course just smiles like nothing is wrong. Or has ever been wrong. “Morning, pal.”

            I sit up. “Time?”

            “08:30,” he replies, ever the soldier.

            “Move out in thirty.” It starts as an order, but I put an inflection on the end so that it seems like they have some input.

            Steve nods, and Sam says, “You don’t dream. Ever.”

            Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I answer, “No.” I stretch, and look at the bed. “Will there be food left if I shower?”

            “Saved plenty for you,” says Steve.

            I go to the bathroom, locking the door behind myself, and turn on the shower. Then I stand at the door a moment, tilting my ear toward the conversation.

            “I don’t like that,” Steve murmurs.

            “Probably a blessing.” Sam says, “If he did dream, he’d probably go crazier than he already is.”

            Shrugging, I strip out of my clothes and get in the shower.

 

I’m the last out the door, so I’m not sure at first why Sam says, “Son of a _bitch_.”

            Steve has the big disc shaped bag on his back, practically screaming _I’m Captain America on the run_ , and it’s a little difficult to see past that. Steve goes to the railing that looks over the small parking lot and lets out a deep sigh. “Well. You warned me about the crime.”

            Oh. That’s what they’re going on about. The Lada that we drove to the city in from the coast is gone. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, moving past with my bag over my shoulder.

            “Guess we’ll have to borrow someone else’s,” Steve continues, sounding guilty. I like how he says ‘borrow’ instead of ‘steal.’ It’s predictably him. “What do you think, Buck? Go a few blocks, and—“

            I pull the keys out of my pocket as I go down the stairs. “Switched out our ride.” I go to the Vepr, opening the back and tossing my bag inside. I take out the backpack I left in there, checking the contents again quickly before putting it over my shoulder.

            Steve and Sam look at each other. Steve arches a brow, and says, “She’s a little bigger than 5’6”, Buck.”

            My mouth twitches upwards slightly. I make it stop. “Both of you back here until we pass the inspection point.”

            Sam actually looks relieved. “Now this I’m used to,” he says, climbing into the back of the camouflage covered heavy vehicle. It’s a little shorter than a van, and hardier than a truck. It is the exact kind of vehicle you want to take across Sakhalin.

            “Don’t touch anything,” I tell him.

            “Hey Barnes?” He smiles. “Feel free to kiss my ass.”

            “If you’re into that, Pigeon, we can negotiate terms later.”

            Steve’s laughing as he gets in, Sam saying, incensed, “Did he just call me _Pigeon_?”

            Steve sits down against the wall of the vehicle, stretching his long legs out, and nods a few times, studying the interior. He looks at me and says, “This is good.”

            Praise. I’m unused to it. I don’t mind it, but….

            Stop it.

            “Don’t touch anything,” I repeat, and close the door on them.

           

“Put your heads down,” I say, barely moving my lips, and watching the soldiers. I’ve washed my hair and combed it back. I’m wearing my gloves. Once I have to, I’ll do the thing that really doesn’t make me look like the pictures that they’ve seen.

            Steve and Sam are both under blankets. They’re good soldiers. They know how to be quiet.

            I tap my fingers against the wheel, nodding my head like I’m listening to a song in my head. I start to mouth the words to some old thing about the Great Patriotic War, pretending like I don’t care about that kid in the puffy coat and the insignia on his hat.

            He’s really giving the gears to the vehicle in front of me. Christ, if I’ve managed to find the only honest bureaucrat in this country, we might have to go to plan B. That’s why I have my backpack in my lap.

            After five minutes, the kid finally sticks something through the truck window. The gate is lifted, and we’re waved forward.

            I roll the Vepr forward, calm as anything, and bring the window down. He’s pudgy in the face, uninterested in looking at me as he holds his pen above his clipboard. “Destination?”

            “Okha.”

            And I smile. I’ve practiced in mirrors many times over the past few years. It was difficult at first. It felt wrong on my face, but one day I got the hang of it after one big crack—I remembered the night we saw _The Wizard of Oz—_ and it’s been easier ever since. I don’t really do it naturally, but I know how it’s supposed to look so that it doesn’t appear fake.

            This is my casual and friendly smile. Yes, I’ve named my smiles.

            “Purpose for visit?”

            “Business.” There’s only one reason to go to Okha. Either that or you’ve decided you’re done living.

            “Permit?”

            I pull the money out of the backpack and hold it out to him. “Permit,” I say easily.

            He looks at the money and freezes. His eyes finally lift to mine.

            It’s 330 000 rubles. I’m not sure how much he makes, but it’s still not anything to sniff at. I keep my smile unwavering and genial.

            He glances over the camouflaged vehicle, and I think he’s weighing the pros and cons of letting me through. I could have plenty in this truck, and there’s several multinational oil companies in Okha that could take some serious damage if one person was focused enough. There’s a reason you need a permit to travel north of Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk.

            Does he want to risk it? I could be an eco-terrorist. If I do something and he was the one who let me through, he loses his job, maybe does some time. Or I could just be trying to do some off the books business that no one needs to know about.

            With very little fanfare, he takes the money and slips it into his pocket. “I’m glad to see your permit is in order,” he says, and tears the sheet he was writing on off his clipboard. He passes it to me—he had only ticked off the two boxes, but he’s being polite. I fold it in quarters and slip it into my bag, next to the Korean boy’s gun I would have killed him with if he didn’t take the money. “Here is your ticket.” He hands me a little piece of paper. “Please display it in your window at all times.”

            “Thank you,” I say.

            He nods to me, saying, “Have a good day.” He’s already waving forward the next car. I ease us through, putting the window back up, and take us out onto the open road.

            After about thirty seconds, Sam says from under his blanket, “And I thought living in DC was expensive.”

 

I keep us at an even hundred kilometres an hour.  For a while the highway ran along the Sea of Okhotsk, but then it delved deep into the island. The road is lined with trees and snow and nothing else. Sometimes the two lane highway is paved, and for long stretches it isn’t. This or the Siberian plains are basically the epitome of Russia for me. We’re not that far away, over two hours behind us.

            Sam is in the back. He has his wings in his lap and is fixing some minor glitch. Every once in a while I catch some little murmur of song coming from under his breath. What is a performance for me is just his life.

            Steve sits in the passenger seat. He asked if he could take my bag, but I’m much more comfortable with it in my lap. This stretch of road feels treacherous. Clear skies, mountains in the distance. Trees aren’t very big. Not many places to hide in with the vehicle. And I want to keep this vehicle for as long as possible. It suits my needs.

            I’m on alert.

            Steve says, “So after Okha.”

            “We’ll see,” I reply.

            He takes a small breath in through his nose. “You know—after everything—a little trust wouldn’t be unwarranted.”

            “I do trust you.” I pause. “I don’t trust Sam.”

            “Laugh it up, fuzz ball,” Sam returns.

            I wrap my fingers tighter around the wheel. “I’m unused to—functioning as a unit. I can give orders. I can follow them. But I’m used to functioning as a weapon. This is going to take some…adjustment on my part.”

            That was honest. That was human.

            It felt _strange_.

            “Sure, Buck,” Steve says, in that oddly gentle voice he only ever uses with me. In all the fragments I have of before Bucky Barnes died, I don’t ever remember him using that voice.

            No, that’s incorrect. When I was twelve, and he was eleven, we found a cat that had been hit by a car that was still alive. I was disgusted—I hadn’t yet become accustomed to the sight of viscera. Steve, though, knelt down by it and told it that everything would be okay, in the same tone of voice that he keeps using with me.

            I’m not a wounded animal. I don’t know what I am, but I don’t think ‘wounded’ quite covers it.

            “It’s beautiful here,” says Steve.

            I don’t know how to react to that. It’s Sakhalin. And beauty is a subjective concept. Not to say that I haven’t thought things are beautiful. I’m not that far gone. I saw a woman with palms the colour of plums in Wakanda that I wanted to press my face into. Sam’s wings are beautiful when he flies, though I think it’s a point of ridiculous macho pride that I never tell him that. There was a home in Bucharest that had crumbled so much I could see three rooms inside, and that was beautiful too. The green flecks in Steve’s blue eyes are beautiful. My new arm is beautiful.

            But Sakhalin?

            “Yeah,” Sam agrees. “I guess if you ignore the fact that we’re fugitives and we can’t let anyone see us because I’m walking while black, it’s kind of a pretty place to land.”

            “C’mon, Sam,” Steve says, glancing back. “Even you told me there were parts of Afghanistan that weren’t that hard to look at.”

            “Rocks can be nice to look at, yes. When you’re looking at the same rocks for seventy two straight hours because your CO should have stayed in Nebraska ogling cows, not so much.”

            “For shame,” Steve says without meaning a word. “We would have never said anything so disrespectful about our commanding officers. Would we, Buck.”

            “I don’t know,” I reply. “Mine was a real showboat.”

            Steve breaks out laughing, and I even hear Sam chuckle. To myself, I smile.

            Wait.

            I just smiled. Not because I had to fake it or because it was a social necessity. I smiled because my body decided to do that without consulting me.

            There’s a hard flutter in my chest. I’m afraid. I know this means that maybe something in me is changing or getting better, but I don’t think I want it to get better. If I’m a person, then I’ll have to contend with everything I’ve done.

            I have a fairly good idea of how that will end, and it will involve self-termination.

            I withdraw immediately from the conversation, ignoring them both and putting my attention solely on the vehicle. My eyes move back and forth from the mirrors to the road in front of us.

            Sam is saying, “Don’t imagine that outfit of yours was standard issue either, huh Cap,” and Steve answers, only I’m focusing on the fleck in the rear view mirror.

            Trust.

            I feel a flush of anger. I brush it aside. Not the time.

            “Sam,” I say, “pass Steve the black case.”

            They fall silent. Then Steve says, “We have incoming?”

            “Sam, pass Steve the black case.” I hear movement, and the case appears beside us. As Steve takes it, I say, “Maybe you want to suit up, Pigeon.”

            “What are we looking at?” Steve says, popping open the case. He hesitates when he sees what’s inside, but only for a moment. He pulls out the bolt action rifle.

            “There’s a drone on our tail, coming in low. Can you load that for me?” I toss my bag into the back. The P-96 isn’t going to cut it at this range.

            Sam mutters, “Shit. Redwing. I’ll send out Redwing.”

            Steve’s already loading the magazine. “Been a long time since I’ve seen these rounds. Didn’t the Red Army use these?”

            The drone is coming in fast, not doing what it should. Drones fly overhead, they drop their payload, the soldier sitting a thousand kilometres away presses a few buttons and brings the bird home. This thing is dropping out of the air, maybe a hundred fifty metres off the ground at this point. It’s aimed at us like _it_ is the bomb.

            “Are you going to do something, Sam?” I ask, my eyes on the mirror. We’re alone out here on this road. Lowers the collateral damage, which will please Steve, though I’m not particularly impressed with him right now. However, whoever wants us hasn’t cared much about casualties before. I already know what’s going to happen once this is finished. He’s going to _hate_ that. “You said you were going to do something.”

            “I’m doing it,” Sam says through gritted teeth.

            Steve slides the bolt in, and says, “I’ll shield up—“

            “You’ll sit there and you won’t do a thing until I say so.”

            I can practically hear his brows go up. “Ohh, that’s not how we do things here, buddy—“

            “Which one of you has the phone?” I ask quietly. “Which one—of you—has the phone?”

            Sam says, “Got it,” and the back doors fly open, and the winter comes in. “Redwing, in the air.”

            I see his toy go flying backwards, and I lay my foot on the gas. We’re about thirty kilometres from Okha, and I can probably get us there in fifteen minutes if we don’t hit any ice on the road. This is unfortunate. I _really_ hoped that we would keep the Vepr.

            Steve says, “Buck—“

            “Busy.”

            “Sam, how are we looking?”

            “Coming in now—man, that’s small, Cap. It’s bigger than Red, but—and it’s moving fast. Look at you go. Well.” I hear the sound of buttons, and Sam murmurs, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

            I have a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen next. After doing nothing for the last seventy years except fight, I have decent instincts.

            “ _Damn_ ,” Sam hisses angrily. “Damn it, you have got to—“

            I watch the side mirror. The two birds in the air are close enough now that I can see them clearly. For a brief moment, it seems like they’re controlled by the same mind. They swing left, right, and then do an elegant barrel roll together towards the earth.

            Then the big white bird swings up and blows the little metal one out of the sky.

            It clicks for me.

            Sam says, seemingly heartbroken, “Son of a—“

            But then he’s yelping, because I’ve slammed on the brakes, and he hits the back of Steve’s seat. I take us into reverse, and put the gas pedal flat on the floor. I turn half in my seat so I can look through the open back doors. The drone is screeching, it’s coming in so fast.

            That’s fine. Fast is good. Fast doesn’t leave much room for error, and that tends to be where I work best.

            I swing the back of the Vepr a little, checking the drone’s reaction. It stutters, almost, as I straighten out, unfastening my seat belt.

            Yeah. I know _exactly_ who you are.

            Reaching over, I take the rifle out of Steve’s hands, and give the wheel a good hard turn to the right. “Grab this,” I say, and push the door open, then throw myself out onto the road.

            It’s actually pretty easy. I roll once, using the metal arm to grab onto the asphalt and stop myself, on my back to keep myself low. Then I swing the butt up against my shoulder, off with the safety. The careening vehicle is blocking me from the drone.

            Calm, I put my eye to the sight, compensate for the wind, listen to the sound the enemy makes to verify its position, and slip my finger up against the trigger.

            And _breathe_.

            The instant the vehicle swings enough to give me a clear shot, I take it. Nice bright crack and a welcome little kick against my shoulder. Better than a hug or a kiss, it’s an absolute comfort to be doing the thing I’m best at.

            The drone drops abruptly as I empty the chamber. I’m familiar with drones from all kinds of places. I know where to aim a bullet, even when the bird in question is three metres long. I reload as the onboard systems struggle to compensate for the damage I’ve done to it. That’s nice. That’s fine. Guess he should be glad I didn’t have the anti-tank weapon ready. Yet. I re-aim, and kill the thing with the second shot.

            This time, it goes down for good. It disappears behind the trees as the Vepr comes to a hard stop, and then there’s the sound of a small explosion. I doubt that was me. I imagine there was a self-destruct function.

            I empty the weapon, slipping the live rounds into my shirt pocket, and the spent ones in my pants pocket as Steve pops up from the vehicle. Sam basically erupts from the back, wings spread and hovering in the air, looking to where the drone went down. But Steve—he’s wide eyed, looking to me and nowhere else.

            Weakness.

            I get to my feet, inspecting the rifle briefly for any damage it may have taken when I jumped from the vehicle. No. It’s a decent piece. Matvei came through.

            “Have to keep moving,” I say, an eye to the south. “He’ll be back.”

            “Who?”

            Tucking the rifle up against my side, I answer, “MODOK.”


	10. Okha

“Which one of you has the phone?”

            No one replies right away. I squeeze the wheel hard enough that I hear a crack.

            “I have it,” Steve says quietly.

            “I asked you if you had any kind of technology on you. Anything that could be traced—“

            “It’s important that I have it.”

            “What’s more important?” I reply. “That we live or die? You lead them right to us.”

            We’re currently doing 120 kilometres an hour towards Okha. We meet more and more vehicles on the road, and I veer around them, trying to remember to breathe. In, one two three. Out, one two three. In, one two three.

            Sam is propped against the back of Steve’s seat. I see him look at Steve in the rear-view mirror, and he says softly, “Cap—we get settled, we’ll find another line.” Steve’s jaw tightens. He thinks he’s right. No. Different. He doesn’t want to admit he’s wrong. “Steve. Don’t make me say the caveman’s right. I’d really rather die first.”

            Pursing his mouth, Steve sits there a moment not doing anything. He waits much longer, I’m going to coldcock him and search the bastard.

            Then he’s reaching inside his coat. He has a battered old flip phone. Taking off the battery, he removes the SIM card and snaps it in half. He crushes the phone with his bare hands, then cracks open the door and throws it on the roadside.

            “Anything else?” I ask.

            “No.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “I told you no.”

            “You wonder why I didn’t tell you where we’re going after Okha? You want to ask why I don’t trust you?”

            “Let’s be cool,” Sam warns. “Let’s all be cool. I’m the one who just lost a treasured ally. I’m the one who should be upset right now.”

            “A whole bunch of people are about to be killed,” I say. “Because you couldn’t let go of that phone. And I don’t care. I don’t care in the least. But remember that when the bodies start dropping in about five minutes.”

            “What are you talking about?” says Steve.

            “I’m talking about Okha. I’m talking about all the people who are about to die there. Just in case you didn’t notice the three drones on our back.”

            “Jesus,” says Sam, scrambling to the window. He still has his wings on, which is good.

            “Don’t take us into town.”

            “Not an option,” I reply.

            “Bucky, do not take us into that town—“       

            “I _have_ to so we can change out vehicles and have decent cover. You don’t understand MODOK, you can’t, so you need to listen when I tell you we need maximum chaos—“

            Steve is adamant, shaking his head. “No! I’m telling you, we’re—Buck! There was a road right there! Why didn’t you—“

            “We’re going into town,” I insist.

            He hisses out a sigh, then lunges over for the wheel.

            I snag his wrist with my metal hand and squeeze, just hard enough that he knows I can and will break bone.

            “This is a really nice arm you got for me, Steve. And just like the last one, it means one very important thing: I’m stronger than you.” I keep my right hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, my metal arm having to cross my body. “If it comes down to it, when I’m calm and if it’s you and I, the arm means I’ll win. Don’t make me break anything right now, because you’re going to need this hand pretty soon.”

            Through gritted teeth, Steve says, “Bucky—if this is about to go sideways, you can’t take us into that town. Those people—“

            “Are expendable.”

            “They are _not_ —“

            “That’s the entire reason you’re here with me, and not safe at home with all of your do gooder friends,” I say evenly. I need to keep him distracted, get him mad. I wonder if I can provoke him hard enough to go beyond his usual predictable patterns in the fight. “You think lives are expendable, you don’t want to operate with oversight. Congratulations. That’s the world we’re in.”

            “Just stop the truck,” he pleads. “We can take them right here.”

            “You’re arguing with me instead of letting me brief you on the enemy—“

            “There’s no reason to use innocent civilians as human shields—“

            “And maybe you should have thought of that when you held onto that phone, thinking that Stark would call you up and forgive you one day. But he won’t. You know that, don’t you?”

            He tries to yank his arm away from me, and the man is strong, strong as anyone I’ve ever faced, but my beautiful new arm is true.

            We’re nearly there. I can see the town up ahead, only a few kilometres away.

            “Did you know that Howard recognized me?” I say, not even blinking. “There was no audio on the tape, so you wouldn’t have heard him say it. But he asked me to help his wife. And then he recognized me. And then I bashed his face in while his wife watched.”

            “Let go,” Steve says hoarsely. “Bucky, let me go—“

            “Bucky Barnes died in 1945. Face facts. Now, if you would stop being a whining little punk who won’t do what’s necessary, I need you to shut the fuck up and listen to what I’m about to tell you. MODOK is going to know everything that you do. It’s going to seem like he knows what you’ll do before you even do it. You can’t fight this one like usual. That means disorder, that means fighting dirty, that means doing things you don’t want to do. Survival at all costs.”

            He’s fighting in my hand, trying to yank his hand free. His wrist is starting to bleed, but even now he won’t hit me. “Our lives aren’t worth the people in that town—“

            “No. Sam and I are expendable. You are not. You’re Captain America.”

            “I _am not_ worth more!” Steve yells.

            I glance up at the rear-view mirror. Sam looks right back at me. After a second, he gives a slight nod.

            “MODOK is like a computer,” I say, possibly more to Sam than Steve. “He will predict what you’re going to do based on all the available data. Don’t do the same thing twice. Don’t do what comes naturally. Do what you have to. I’ll create cover, and we’ll try to find another vehicle that will get us out of the city.” We blow past the sign for the city, and I say, “Steve, I am going to let you go now. I need you to stop being emotional for one second, and recognize that we’re already here, and this fight is about to happen. You want to be mad, good. Take it out on MODOK.” I release him, and he shoves away from me, shaking out his wrist. Checking our situation in my left side mirror, I say, “Trust me, he can take it.”

           

They’re about two kilometres away, when I take a hard right. I drive us directly into the middle of a close enclave of apartment buildings, concrete, faded blue and yellow on one, a salmon colour on the other’s railings.

            “This is gonna get ugly,” Sam says, but he’s fully suited now, armor and gauntlet and goggles. I’ve read about his missions in Afghanistan. He’s prepared for this kind of warfare.

            I look over the few vehicles parked out back as I bring us to a halt on the northwest side of the small square.

            Fuck. Gonna have to be the Yugo.

            I hop out of the vehicle, jogging to the back. The square is covered in dirty snow. That’ll effect conditions on the ground. I’m tossing aside my coat, wanting full range of movement. The cold’s not even that bad here. About -15. I sling the rifle over my shoulder.

            Sam jumps out, going right into the air. “What do you see, Sam?” Steve says.

            I’m tossing the covered shield at him, then I grab my backpack. I take out the P-96 and give it to him. “Take it, use it.”

            He doesn’t argue, just checks the magazine as Sam calls down, “Three coming in hot, Cap—same size as the last one—“ He swoops down. “Got about thirty seconds before they’re on top of us.”

            I take the three smoke grenades out, pulling the pin, and chuck one against the closest building. “Our exit vehicle is the Zastava Florida.”

            “The what?” Sam says.

            Pulling the second pin, I say, “The silver Yugo with the rust on the bumpers.”

            “You sure you don’t want me to just fly us out of here? Might be faster, me carrying you two superhumans.”

            I throw the grenade to the north, red smoke billowing out and mingling with the black. “Inconspicuous. Hold them off for as long as you can. I’ll relocate the weapons to the vehicle.”

            Steve has unzipped the bag, and he pulls out a shining, silvery shield that looks like it’s made from the same material as my arm. He’s stuck with vibranium, but there’s no star, no red white and blue on this shield. It’s undecorated, a tool instead of a symbol. “Sam, you take whatever one comes in on the right. Get it in the air away from the apartments. I’ll see what I can do about the other two.”

            He’s shed his jacket as well, and puts on a bracer. He tosses the shield against it, and it holds. I am suddenly concerned that this will be a bloodbath. Does he know how to fight a battle like this?

            Guess we’ll find out. I pull the final pin, and say, “Don’t do what he expects.” I toss the grenade at our feet. Steve looks at me, then they both turn and disappear in the billowing smoke.

            If I’m lucky they’ll give me sixty seconds. I’m not lucky, they both die.

            I won’t feel good about it if Steve dies. Sam, well. He could be useful, I guess.

            I pull out a black scarf, wrapping it around my neck and lower face. I find it easier to fight when my mouth is covered. It comes from all the decades of being conditioned to keep my appearance a secret.

            Yanking out the belt, I strap it on. I attach a few grenades—actual ones. Then I grab the blue case, not looking up as the gunfire begins. I hear the sound of three small but powerful engines overhead. They’re obviously armed with small fire ammunition. I wonder if they have anything bigger.

            That question gets answered when I hear an explosion coming from the top of the east building.

            Bet he’s trying to draw Steve’s attention by attacking the apartment building. Because I sure as hell doubt that MODOK just missed. I take one of the hand sized grenades and arm it, tossing it in the back of the Vepr. It’s a real pity. I bet Lidiya would have appreciated it.

            I’m running to the Yugo through the smoke when the vehicle explodes behind me. A second later, I hear Sam yell, then there’s the screech of metal on metal. People are starting to scream from the buildings.

            Older cars are much easier to steal than new when you don’t have HYDRA technology on you. All I need is a hook—which I have—and about five seconds worth of patience. While I slip the hook down between the window and the door, looking for the lock, I listen to what’s happening behind me.

            There’s the constant _clink_ of the shield striking a surface, and then a slight echo. I know what that means. Steve keeps throwing it and it’s not hitting the target. Damn it. I knew it. I _knew_ it.

            Sam’s apparently had better luck. I hear him yelling very close to the sound of a screaming engine, weapons fire going wild. I think he’s actually _on_ the drone. Nice work, Sam.

            No surprise what happens next, though. I’m unlocking the door to the Yugo when one of the birds turns and destroys the drone Sam’s attacking, just to get the shot at him.

            “ _Sam_!” Steve yells. Sam’s crying out in pain. I can tell he’s plummeting.

            I put the big blue case on top of the hatchback, opening it up. I can’t see much, but that’s fine. I can handle these weapons in my sleep. This is just a little smoke. A child is crying. I barely notice. No one’s been stupid enough to flee the buildings, yet.

            I hop up on top of the vehicle, grabbing the weapon out of the case. Magazine’s already full, though that’s turned out to be pointless, since I need to follow my own advice and not do the same thing twice. I slam the magazine into place, glancing up. For a second, the wind moves enough that I can see what’s happening. The two remaining birds are swooping down, and I see Steve, halfway up a building, hopping and leaping down the side to try and get to Sam, who must be somewhere on the ground.

            Unbelievable. It’s like he didn’t listen to a word I said.

            Rolling onto my stomach, I put the butt of the anti-tank rifle against my shoulder. I aim. I fire.

            Easy.

            Before it even hits its target—and it does, gloriously—I’m leaping off the car, discarding the weapon and running through the smoke, swinging the rifle off my shoulder and loading it with the rounds I put in my shirt pocket earlier, running towards where I know Steve will go, where Sam must be.

            Incorrect. That is the incorrect course of action.

            The soldier would turn and leave. There is chaos. People are screaming. Civilians are aware of what’s happening, and that makes things messier. It’s the perfect opportunity to slip away without any damage to the unit.

            Bucky Barnes would go to his friends and make sure they were protected.

            For two seconds, I am stuck in place. Because I don’t know what _I’m_ supposed to do.

            It’s two seconds wasted, because the last bird comes rocketing down, clearing the smoke for a moment with the force of its momentum. As it swings back up, I see Steve with his shield up, protecting himself against any incoming fire from above. He’s racing towards Sam, meaning to keep him from more harm.

            Ah. Predictable.

            The bird is starting its final descent. I detach a grenade from my belt—a _limonka_ , because I seem to be a sucker for the classics—and yank the pin. I throw it at Sam, yelling as loud as I can, “ _Grenade_!”

            Steve throws himself on Sam, positioning the shield between himself and the blast, as I skid down onto my back, aiming with the rifle. I have my arm between myself and the grenade, because it has a 200 metre fragmentation radius. It’s entirely possible one of us is about to suffer serious blood loss.

            Well, besides Sam, but more so.

            In a split second, I see the stutter in the drone as Steve moves his shield forward instead of overhead. Didn’t expect that, did you. I get off a shot before the grenade detonates.

            I close my eyes automatically at the blast, bringing the rifle down to protect it from harm. Something goes whizzing across my cheek, and I know that will bleed. I’m already reloading the rifle as heat ripples across my face.

            I give it three seconds from the initial blast before spinning up onto my knees. The drone is sagging from the sky, already damaged from the first shot and the grenade. Its bottom has been gouged open, wires hanging out. I take a good guess at where the brain of the thing is, and squeeze off one more shot.

            It explodes in mid-air. Self-destruct.

            I sling the rifle over my shoulder, and walk across the blackened, pocked ground, through the smoke, listening for Steve and Sam. My ears are ringing ever so slightly.

            I find them thrown against the south wall. Sam has three holes in him. Thigh, gut, shoulder. The one in his stomach doesn’t look great. He’s gurgling.

            Steve’s leaned over him, shield cast aside. He’s trying to stop the bleeding with both hands. “Sam—soldier, look at me—“

            “Pick him up,” I say. “We have to get out of here.”

            Steve’s head jerks up. Don’t know if I’ve seen him that mad at me since we were in school and I slept with that girl he had a crush on but didn’t confess until after I’d had her. For the life of me, I can’t remember her name, but I definitely know the look on his face. “You could have killed us.”

            “Calculated risk. If you want to save him, pick him up and we go. Otherwise, leave him. But we have to go now.”

            _There_ is the look he should be giving me. It’s distrustful, and upset, and furious.

            The part of me that’s still Bucky Barnes is sick at it, but the rest of me knows I’ve just saved our lives.

            “Steve,” Sam gasps, “let’s get the hell out of here.”

            Steve goes soft at that like he usually only goes soft for me. “Can do, soldier,” he says, and picks Sam up as easily as he would a little boy.

            I pick up the spent cartridges and the grenade launcher on our way to the Yugo. It’s only 28 kilometres to Nekrasovka. Let’s see if Sam lives that long.


	11. George

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, folks, sorry about that. I forgot about the flashback chapter before they get to Nekrasovka.   
> Also, I put a warning for torture in the tags, right? I really hope I did.

_“Let’s see if we can resolve this situation,” the handler says, more to himself than the soldier._

_They are sitting in a waiting room. It is very clean and neat and bright. Lots of light. The soldier is quite sure he does not belong here. The woman behind the desk keeps glancing at him, and averting her eyes every time she sees that he’s still facing her._

_“We need the algorithm,” the handler says to him. “Today. Understood?”_

_He doesn’t usually speak this much. It must be important if he’s doing so. The soldier gives a very small nod. He is not armed, at least not in a way that these people would expect. He is the weapon. He is the fist of HYDRA. If the seller does not comply, the soldier’s orders are to kill everyone in the building._

_The woman hears something in her headset, then smiles at them weakly. “He’ll see you now.”_

_The soldier stands after his handler does. “Many thanks,” the handler says, and goes to the door._

_When they step inside, the soldier quickly assesses the room. An office, but an office that sees little use. Things are meticulously in place, no dust. The soldier can tell from the smell alone that no one ever actually works here. There is a secondary exit, to the right. The blinds are drawn._

_The man the soldier assumes is the seller is leaning against the desk. He looks American. He has blond hair almost as long as the soldier’s, and good teeth. His clothes probably costs as much as the weapon they’re here to purchase._

_He has a guard. The man is lanky, with a shaved head. He’s sprawled in a chair, cracking gum. The soldier is unimpressed. If he ever presented like that, he would be reset. They would think he was malfunctioning._

_“We weren’t expecting you so soon,” says the seller. He’s smiling, but there’s strain around his eyes._

_Shaking his hand, the handler responds, “We were in the area.”_

_“Were you.”_

_“We were. And since we have not heard from you concerning recent progress, we thought we might—“ The handler pats his hands together. “The phrase escapes me. Ah. Check in.”_

_The seller keeps the smile on his face, but the soldier knows that the handler also sees it is false. The seller takes a small breath, then says, “Unfortunately—we’ve hit a minor snag.”_

_“Snag,” echoes the handler. He looks unassuming, like a roly poly little professor, but the soldier knows from his file that he has six confirmed kills. Bare handed. The soldier can hear the hint of ice in the handler’s voice and wonders if the number is about to go to seven._

_“The last time you were here, you met the man responsible for the algorithm. The thing is, George has—had an incident.”_

_“Dead?”_

_The seller gives his head a shake. “No. No, it’s—rather complicated.”_

_“I’m a smart man. And I’ve come to you with a considerable sum of money. I expect more than complicated.”_

_Putting his hands together, as if he was praying, the seller shakes them a little, and says, “I’m afraid—at this time, we won’t be able to do business. You have my deepest regrets.”_

_The handler looks at the soldier. The soldier understands. He pulls his phone from his pocket as the handler says, “I’m afraid that will not be acceptable.”_

_The soldier sends a text, and waits with his eyes on the phone as the seller tries to beg off. Regrets, apologies, but all with a hint of arrogance behind it. He thinks he’s in control here. His tiny operation is barely a decade old. He doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with._

_The soldier feels the guard’s eyes on him. This time, the soldier has worn his full mask, at the handler’s request. He was also instructed not to interact with the guard unless the handler was threatened. He is complying._

_When the video comes through on his phone, the soldier tilts his head towards the handler. Taking the cell, the handler says, “Thank you, soldier.”_

_He turns the phone around to show the seller. For the first time, the man’s tan skin pales, and the smile falls completely from his face._

_“This is a live feed. Mr. Slattery will not be harmed, of course, if all goes well here. We were very impressed by his performance last week. I myself looked into his previous work in Croyden. He is a most passionate performer.” He hands the phone back to the soldier, and slips his hands in his pockets. “Now—we don’t care what you do to the President. That’s all well and good. Ellis isn’t our man, and we’re sure your man will be better for our interests. But you seem to not understand that you are not—again, these English phrases. Ah. You are not the only game in town.” The handler smiles softly, and says, “We will take all data concerning the algorithm. Today. Now. Or this gets…messy.”_

_There’s something happening under the surface of the seller’s skin. An orange glint rippling. The soldier watches through his mask, focusing on the rising body temperature. Interesting._

_After enough time to swallow his pride, the seller pastes a smile back on his face, and says, “All right. Speaking of English phrases, I don’t suppose you know the one ‘over a barrel’?”_

_“I do in fact. The data. And what of this scientist? Tarleton?”_

_Raising his brows, the seller says, “You want to see George?” At that, he seems amused again. Pushing himself off the desk, he gestures to the other exit. “Let’s go see George.”_

_The handler is very quiet as they watch through the glass. The thing—the soldier is not quite sure if it still qualifies as a man—is strapped down to a table. The soldier does not know how well he’d be able to move anyways. Not with that head on such a slender frame._

_“He tried to interfere with some of our biological experiments,” the seller informs them, almost bored. “As you can see, it didn’t turn out so well for him.”_

_They have headphones on the thing, and wires attached to almost every surface. His eyes are clipped open, and there’s a spray beside his head that sends out a mist every few minutes, presumably so that his eyes don’t dry. Above him, the ceiling is nothing but screens, all showing images of the same person. The soldier does not recognize the man—blonde, well made, in a suit that seems to telegraph America—but he can tell that there’s subliminal messages encoded in the images. Text. Too fast for him to see what it says, but he recognizes the process easily. He’s been in that position enough times. This is a process he knows, even if he can’t remember. The thing on the table is saying something. It looks like he’s repeating himself, but the soldier is at such an angle he can’t tell what it is._

_“I don’t suppose I can be coy about our plans for the President,” the seller says. “After that, we figure he—“ The seller taps on the glass, gesturing to the ceiling. “Might be the biggest threat. At least here on Earth. No telling when the other one is coming back.”_

_“Hmm,” says the handler. The soldier wonders if this will fit in with their plans. He does not know what the plans are, but he understands that the handler is contemplating it._

_“We have a few projects aimed at Rogers, but they’re all still on the ground floor. George was kind of a happy accident. You heard what he thought of enhanced last time. He wouldn’t have even been working here if it wasn’t for the money. We’ve found that he’s progressing nicely with the focus on the captain. Given his current condition, he’s not too fond of—well, I’ll let him tell you.”_

_The seller leans over, tapping a console on the wall. There’s faint mumbling._

_“How you doing, George?” the seller says cheerfully._

_The thing on the table keeps repeating the same phrase over and over again. The soldier turns his head a few millimetres towards the speaker, and finally picks it up._

_“Perfection is abomination. Perfection is abomination. Perfection is abomination.”_

_He feels the guard looking at him, and ignores him. Those are his orders. He looks at the thing on the table, being imprinted with his enemy. He wonders if the experiment will work._

_He wonders when he’ll be back in his own machine. It doesn’t bother him all that much._

_And all the while, the thing is saying, “Perfection is abomination….”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! If you've gotten this far, I would really appreciate hearing from you. It's a leap of faith for me to post these, and when I get comments or kudos, it takes some of the anxiety away. I know, for someone who writes about violence, torture, and brainwashing, I'm pretty needy, but hey, we're all allowed to have layers.


	12. Lidiya

“You have to go faster—“

            “I’ve already told you,” I say evenly, “I have to keep the speed down because he might have access to satellite surveillance—“

            “Speed up the damn Yugo!” Sam yells, then drops his head back with a groan.

            They’re both in the backseat. That means my seat is pushed forward so Steve can fit back there. Sam’s wings are in their pack on the passenger seat. Surprisingly, they look in fairly good condition. I notice blood on metal this time. I guess that’s some kind of progress.

            I don’t go any faster. Steve gets distracted, trying to slow the bleeding. They both got mad at me for not having any bandages. Steve is using my scarf on the bullet wound in Sam’s stomach. The thigh and shoulder aren’t seeing much attention.

            “Almost there, Sam,” Steve says.

            “Almost _where_?” Sam shoots back.

            “We are almost there,” I say, eyes watching for the turn off. I’ve gone past Nekrasovka. Hope this works. Because otherwise Sam is going to die, and I’ll never hear the end of it from Steve.

            “Where are we going?” Steve asks, then curses under his breath, and I hear something slippery from the backseat.

            “Somewhere safe.”

            If it’s still there.

            If I’m welcome.

            I almost miss the turn off. It’s hidden in the poplar and fir trees. There’s not many out here, but the house is nestled in the woods, away from prying eyes. I’m taking a bit of a risk here.

            Turning the Yugo down the road, I take us through the trees. The road isn’t even really a road. I doubt anyone has driven on it in months. Sam cries out with pain, and Steve tells him everything will be okay.

            That bothers me. Not sure why, but it bothers me.

            A little voice inside says, _you know exactly why it bothers you_.

            Went right for him with the shield. Dropped out of the sky with three bullet wounds in him, and didn’t hesitate. Isn’t that nice.

            Not the time.

            I see a shape through the trees, and say, “You both need to stay in the car until I make sure we won’t be shot.”

            “I thought you said it was safe,” snaps Steve.

            “It’s safe compared to what we just left behind,” I reply.

            I bring the car to a stop when I reach the small clearing. The trailer is old and sagging, but obviously inhabited. All kinds of debris litters the yard. Past the trees, I can see the water.

            There’s a young man sitting on a plastic chair in the middle of the snow. He’s smoking a cigarette, feet propped up on a milk crate. He doesn’t seem surprised that we’re here, doesn’t so much as move.

            I turn off the car, then step outside. From the start, I have my hands out so he can see I don’t have anything on me. I wouldn’t dare, coming here. He watches me with unblinking dark eyes. He has black hair down to his waist, and I can see her in him. He’s still smoking his cigarette, but the other hand is in his pocket, and I imagine he has a pistol aimed right at me.

            “I’m looking for Lidiya,” I say.

            He studies me another moment, almost uninterested. Then he tilts his head towards the trailer and hollers, without moving his eyes from me, “Grandmother.”

            A few seconds go by. Then the door of the trailer opens.

            She must be in her sixties now. Her tan face has become a map of wrinkles, and that long black hair has turned to silver. She’s wearing a sweater with a hole on it, and slippers, and she’s holding a gun at her side. She does not look like a happy person.

            For a moment we look at one another, and I wait to see what she’ll do.

            She drops the gun, and the smile on her face makes her look about twenty years younger. “Soldier,” she breathes, and she’s bounding down the steps and across the snow to meet me.

            The young man doesn’t let go of his gun.

            Lidiya comes to me, almost beaming. I can remember her looking the exact same way with bombs exploding all around us. She stops, eyes searching my face.

            I’m not sure what she’ll make of this, but I offer my hands to her. She looks down, then puts her hands in mine. They are softer than they used to be. That’s age. Her hands are silky and wrinkled and small in my own.

            “You’ve been upgraded,” she says, turning my metal hand over. Then with a smile, Lidiya reaches up to touch my cheek. “Still the same face, though.” She glances over me, sees the flecks of Sam’s blood, and sobers. “What has happened?”

            “I need your help.”

            She blinks. I don’t sound like I used to. I don’t sound like the Winter Soldier. Lidiya squeezes my metal hand, and says, “Of course.”

            “Do you trust me?”

            Without hesitation, she says, “I trust you.”

            I turn back to the car, and nod for the others. Steve opens the door, and steps out. He’s soaked in blood.

            I look at Lidiya. She’s staring past me, her face a blank. Turning her black eyes to mine, she says, “You _must_ be joking.”

            “I need your help,” I repeat.

            She presses her lips together in a thin line. Nodding abruptly, she moves away from me. “We’ll take them to the house. Semyon! Put the gun away, and put the car in the water.” The young man obeys immediately, tossing his cigarette into the snow. I toss him the keys and he grabs them out of the air.

            I follow Lidiya to the car. “Do you have internet here? Telephone? Are you on the grid at all?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. Well, he’s bleeding a lot, isn’t he.”

            “Steve, pick him up. Follow Lidiya.” She’s snapping her fingers at Steve, gesturing for him to speed up, then she turns and walks into the woods. I go with her. “Those two idiots had phones.”

            “Aren’t they Avengers?”

            “They were. That doesn’t mean they’re smart.”

            “And yet,” she says, giving me a hard glare, “we fell thanks to _that_ one.”

            “How long since you were even called on?”

            “It’s the principle of the thing.”

            Steve is behind us, and Sam has gone very quiet in his arms. “Where are we going?” Steve asks.

            “The house,” I reply.

            “How far?”

            I can hear the panic in his voice. I wonder how panicked he was when _I_ fell. God, that’s almost sickeningly human. I’m embarrassed by myself. “Almost there,” I say gruffly.

            “Buck—“

            I continue speaking to Lidiya in Russian, ignoring him. “There’s an enhanced, completely insane, aiming for us. We just blew up a chunk of Okha.”

            And she smiles at me. “I’ve _missed_ you,” she says.

            She plunges a hand into the snow, and brushes it aside. Crouching, she flips open a control panel, and punches in the code. There’s the sound of metal unlocking, then she opens up the door in the ground. “Hold that,” she tells me, and I do. She descends down the stairs into the flickering green fluorescent light. “Is he coming?”

            Steve hesitates. Then he frowns, and almost jogs down the stairs with Sam in his arms.

            I look around, then I follow, fastening the door behind us.

 

“I saw you on the news,” Lidiya says absently, lifting another bullet fragment from Sam’s leg.

            We’re all sitting in the operating theatre. Lidiya has her glasses down low on her nose, a bloodied apron on. She’s already taken care of the gut wound, and put a stasis agent of some kind on the shoulder injury. Sam is under a mask with the automatic anesthesia machine working.

            The house is a bunker that had eight rooms the last time I was here, which I think was sometime in the ‘90s. The first time I was here it was run with petrol, the last time something to do with converting the salt water. Two of the rooms are filled top to bottom with provisions. As it stands, if the apocalypse came to northwest Sakhalin, Lidiya could easily live out the rest of her days.

            I’m sitting on a stool at Sam’s feet. He’s an ashy colour. “Bucharest?”

            “Mm,” she says. “Soldier, I require more of these little tongs. Could you—yes, very good.”

            I pass her instruments when she needs it, but I am not required to offer any other aid. Lidiya is one of the finest surgeons I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty. I once saw her remove a live grenade from the stomach of a booby trapped agent, and then shoot him in the head two months later when he disobeyed an order.

            “I wondered—if you would remember me.” She clucks, probing at a piece of metal embedded in Sam’s thigh. “There’s another one.”

            “I remembered.”

            I recall one of the times she operated on my arm. I was injured, and there was a tear between metal and flesh. It was agonizing, even for me. She fixed it so quickly and efficiently that I think HYDRA gave her a medal.

            “What do you remember?”

            “All kinds of pieces. I’m not the soldier anymore. Or I’m not only.”

            “So you have your memories of before even the good old days.”

            “All kinds of pieces,” I repeat.

            She nods a little, dropping the fleck of metal into a pan already littered with them. “Who do you serve now? Him?”

            “I serve no one.”

            “That must be difficult for you.”

            “It hasn’t proven easy.”

            “I saw…on the news…that he was once your friend.” She glances at me, brows raised. “Is that why you are with him now?”

            I look over at Steve. He’s sitting on the floor with his big hands in his lap, head bowed. He hasn’t changed out of his bloody clothes. Not that anyone’s offered him any other clothes, I suppose.

            “I guess.” I turn back to her. “After DC—I didn’t know where else to go.”

            Under her mask, I can hear her teeth click. “You could have come here,” she murmurs.

            “I haven’t remembered everything. The first year or so…I didn’t even speak, really.”

            “You were never one for talking.” She leans toward me. “Soldier, scratch my nose, please.”

            I follow orders, and she goes back to work.

            I glance at Semyon. He is seated above Sam’s head. There’s an IV in his arm. He’s gazing lazily across the room. “When did he happen? I remember your daughter, but not him.”

            “1996. Two years after the last time I saw you.” Lidiya growls, narrowing her eyes. “You want to be difficult, don’t you. Hmm, so Semyon, he’s Vladlina’s. Vladlina died two years after he was born.”

            “I’m sorry, sister.”

            “She died in service. We are very proud of her. Semyon’s not terrible. He’s a universal donor, so I suppose that’s why I keep him around.”

            “I also do all the cooking,” the boy says.

            “No one told you to speak. So? Soldier? What are you going to need from me?”

            “A lot.”

            “Thank God. You have no idea how fucking useless I feel out here.”

            “When’s the last time you were pinged?”

            “Just after DC. I had a group come through here after they fled the States. That’s the last action we’ve seen.” Lidiya shakes her head with a glare. “I actually thought about learning how to knit.”

            “How are you doing for money?” I ask. “Do you need me to do anything?”

            She tsks at me. “Lidiya Nyengun and the Winter Soldier. There are many stories there. I will always take care of you.” She sits back a moment, rolling her shoulders. “Even if you bring fucking Captain America into my house.” Lidiya takes a breath, then says, “Dear, I need the needle holder. Time for more sutures.”

            I pass it to her, watching the rise and fall of Sam’s chest. I don’t think I’m imagining it; I see some of his colour is starting to come back.

            “What’s the story with this one? What do they call him again?”

            “Falcon,” I say. “Sam. He’s—“ I think of how he actually managed to get _on_ the drone while nothing Steve did stuck. I study the unconscious figure beside me, and frown. “He’s a good soldier. Loyal. Smart. We hate each other.”

            Lidiya laughs softly. “Let me finish fixing him up, so you can keep hating him for a long, long time.”

            I take a breath, and look back at Steve. He’s staring at the ground, glazed.

 

There is something inside me that is still.

            I sit on a log, looking at the water. I don’t go down to the beach. I want to stay in the trees. It’s coming on evening, the sun down below the horizon to my right.

            This is a safe place. I don’t mean in the way that nothing bad could ever happen here. This is as _close_ to safe as is possible. The house is under layers of concrete, Lidiya always has an arsenal, and there’s no internet giving away our position. She was always completely off the book. If I was the kind of person willing to just hide until death came, this is where I’d choose to do it. I’d probably get away with it too.

            Only I don’t think I’m that kind of person.

            I hear his steps coming through the snow. I glance back, and he meets my eyes, both annoyed and amused. Biting into my lower lip, I look back at the water.

            Steve sits down next to me. He’s wearing an old HYDRA uniform from the 1980s. Crossing his arms, he says, “The inference I was supposed to get is that this is the only thing they have that fits me. Personally, I think that might not be true.”

            “It’s true.” I pause, realizing that my face wants to smile again. I make it stop. “But they probably _really_ enjoyed seeing you put it on.”

            Steve rubs the back of his neck, and says, “These people are HYDRA.”

            “They were. Lidiya’s a realist. She knows the war is lost. She still believes in the cause, but she’s not going to turn us over to anyone.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “I trust her.”

            Steve gives me a hard look. “You don’t trust _me_. But you trust her not to give us up.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Why?” he says, and the man has the audacity to sound hurt.

            “I took the blame for killing her husband.” That shuts Steve up. I stretch my legs out into the snow. “He was HYDRA too. Both of them were on my medical team. She found out that he was hurting their daughter. Next time it was just the three of us in a room, she killed him, and asked me to say I’d done it. Didn’t order me. Asked me. And she was always really nice to me. So I said I did it. They wiped me the next day. I’d see her on and off here for the next decade or so. No—no, longer. She was always very good to me, and we did a lot together. She took a bullet for me one time, and I took a bullet for her.” I shrug. “I guess she’s the closest thing the Winter Soldier ever had to a friend.”

            Steve sighs, and says, “Well.” He claps his hands together a few times. Another fidget. “Looks like she did really good work on Sam.”

            “Lidiya can do by herself what three top surgeons couldn’t do together. If they’d made her the Winter Soldier, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, because HYDRA would have won.”

            “Then why’s she out here?”

            “Because she’s a woman, and she’s Nivkh.” At Steve’s confused look, I say, “Nivkh. Indigenous. Not many of them left. You probably noticed that HYDRA was almost exclusively male dominated. And Nazi roots run deep. Lot of light faces.” I look Steve over. “You’re the kind of person they expected to wear that uniform.”

            Steve shifts, not too comfortable with that.

            “So,” he says. “Tell me about MODOK.”

            “The list I made last night.”

            “Modog,” he says with a nod.

            “It didn’t click for me until I saw what he was doing. I’m sorry. I wish I could remember everything when it’s convenient, but I can’t.”

            “Yeah, well…we have to work with what we’ve got.”

            He’s subdued. Between the fight and Sam, he’s not pretending to be Mr. Optimism. I thought I’d be relieved by that, but it’s actually a little discomfiting.

            “MODOK is an AIM project. He used to be named—George. George something.” I look at the palm of my metal hand, flexing it. All the little scales, moving together. “George Tarleton. He worked with computers. He was working on an algorithm that would predict human behavior. HYDRA was interested because it was so similar to what Zola was doing for Insight. They wanted to see if they could improve the program for Insight.”

            “Did it?”

            “There were a few pieces. But when we got the algorithm, it wasn’t complete. Tarleton had an accident. Or Killian said it was an accident. I don’t know exactly how it happened. Tarleton had been physically altered. Mutated. The limb regeneration wasn’t the only biological experiments they were working on at AIM. They were like…a start-up HYDRA. Fingers all over the place.”

            “You’ve seen this MODOK?”

            “Yeah. I saw him before and after the accident. Before, he was this—squirrelly guy. A genius. Eccentric. He had very deep opinions about enhanced. He hated that AIM was working on that kind of thing. He _hated_ that he worked for Killian. But it was the only place that would finance his research.” I shrug. “That he knew of. If HYDRA had gotten hold of him first, he probably would have been Zola’s apprentice. After the accident—or whatever the hell Killian did to him—it altered his brain. His head’s about twice the size it should be—literally. So big that it didn’t even look like he could lift it. When I saw him, they were torturing him. They were conditioning him for one target.”

            Grim, Steve guesses, “Me?”

            “Yep.”

            “Why?”

            “Stark was at the top of Killian’s black list, for personal reasons. He figured you were the next biggest threat here on Earth. So they made MODOK.”

            “Do I want to know what MODOK means?”

            “Mental Organism Designed Only for Killing.” Steve gives me a long, hard look, and I raise my shoulders. “Hey, I’m not the one who came up with the names for these things.”

            “Mental Organism….” Steve lets out a deep breath, and says, “Sure. Why not. So I need to be on the lookout for a computer scientist with a big head.”

            “He’s a little more than that now.” I turn my hand over, studying what my knuckles look like when I curl my fingers. “After Killian tried to assassinate the President, the HYDRA agents that had embedded with AIM grabbed what they thought they could use before running. One of the things they grabbed was MODOK. The last time I heard anything about him, they had him in a prototype suit, and he was being tested. The algorithm—he’s got it in his head. He looks at patterns, and he can tell what an opponent is going to do before they do it. I was being drilled for DC, and we were in the same building as him while his test was running, and my handler wanted to see, so we went over. They were thinking of using him if something went wrong. He did well in the first two tests—it was exactly like what you saw today. Anything that came at him, he could avoid in the suit. Non-lethal. Those were his orders, and he followed them. It was something else. He’s so smart that it almost seems like—precognition. But the third test—they put a guy in there with a Captain America suit on, and MODOK—failed.”

            “What’s that tone mean? What kind of failed?”

            I shrug. “He used all his weapons at the same time, and then stomped on what was left of the body while screaming the same phrase AIM programmed him with.”

            “And what’s that?”

            “Perfection is abomination.”

            Steve blinks, then says, “So we tell him I’m not perfect, and problem solved.”

            “Yeah, that sounds like a winner.”

            “So he’s gotten loose, I’m guessing.”

            “You guys didn’t pick him up when you were sweeping up the HYDRA bases, so no. It would appear he’s on his own now.” I push my hair back with both hands. “And he can access multinational military systems, from the looks of things.”

            “The internet’s really helpful, but there are days when I curse its creation. Is he directly linked to the net?”

            “I don’t know. The last time I saw him was three years ago. More. After he failed the test, they were going to put him in cryo, because he was so uncontrollable.”

            “Do you think we’ll ever really be done with HYDRA?”

            I want to grab him by the lapels of his black uniform and shake him stupid. I want him to feel his brain rattling around in his skull because I’m shaking him so goddamn hard. Instead I just sit here and answer, “Probably not.”

            “If he gets onto us again, he’s going to be difficult to beat. I can’t remember the last fight when—Buck, I didn’t so much as _dent_ those things. Every single thing I did—it was like he could see it coming a mile away.”

            “I _told_ you,” I can’t help but say. “Most people wouldn’t stand a chance against him. But you—he’s programmed to hate you. He’s probably spent thousands of hours doing nothing but watch you in combat. He knows exactly how to fight you. The only reason he didn’t kill us all today is because he’s obviously got something else planned. He is going to be really pissed off right now though.”

            “You could have killed all of us today.”

            “Yeah.” I look at him. “He didn’t calculate on that, though.”

            I turn my eyes back to the water. It’s calm. A little icy.

            “How’s your wrist?” I ask.

            “I’ve had worse.”

            “Please don’t try and grab me like that again. If I’m not in control, I could hurt you.”

            I feel him pause. Shuffling his feet in the snow, Steve says, “You won’t.”

            I sigh.

            The ground rumbles underneath us. I’m not surprised. The fact that it’s been six hours is more surprising than anything else.

            Steve sits up straighter, saying, “Bombs.”

            “Uh huh.” I watch the surface of the water tremble slightly. “Like I said. He’s pissed.”

            Steve looks towards the southeast. “Okha,” he says.

            “Howard didn’t recognize me.” Steve goes rigid as the earth shakes. There’s one big blast. Probably one of the refineries. I keep curling my fingers in and out. “I just said that to distract you. The rest of what I said about killing them was true, but he didn’t recognize me. He was pretty out of it.”

            “We don’t need to talk about it.”

            “Fine—“

            “ _I_ don’t want to talk about it.”

            “Fine.”

            He’s going pink in the cheeks, and I don’t think it’s the cold. He glances away from me, then says, “You said Bucky Barnes died in 1945. Then who are you?”

            “No idea.”

            He sighs, and pushes himself up. “You’re getting your dates wrong. It was 1944.”

            The compulsion to leap on him and bash in his head is so strong that I’m shocked by it. I actually bite down on my tongue so that I don’t scream at him.

            I know what fucking year I died.

            Steve walks away when I don’t say anything.

            Slowly, I force my fists to unclench. There are fingernail marks in my flesh hand.

            “You’ve woken the giant.”

            I raise my head, looking back gratefully. Lidiya walks to me. Her sweater is bloody, but she hasn’t changed out of it. I like that about her.

            She puts an arm across my shoulders, and I lean against her. I close my eyes as she pets my hair, like she used to do before they turned on the machine.

            Another tremor ripples under our feet, and Lidiya says, “It was always an ugly town anyways. Semyon will be happy. He’ll get to go south to do the shopping. That and the gods will be pleased. What a sacrifice. And they do love to watch things burn.”

            “I always leave a lot of that kind of thing behind me.”

            She laughs softly, and says, “That’s why the gods favour you. You’re the soldier in the snow—but when needed, you know to set the fire.”

            I breathe in her scent, like chemicals and wool, and relax.


	13. Autonomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having issues with formatting again (shakes fist at sky and screams "BETA!!!!") Bear with me while I try to deal with duplicate notes from old chapters appearing on new ones.

I stay in the woods until late. I can’t remember the last time I could just be on my own, because I wanted to be.

            After DC, it was okay at first. I was programmed on what to do if there was a system wide failure. Find cover, wait to be contacted. So I found cover.

            Except Steve had basically driven an ice pick into my brain. Talk about your cracks.

            I ignored it as much as I could, just stayed in my hole and checked all my secret places for drops. Any kind of sign that I was supposed to come in, that I was being looked for by my handlers.

            No one came.

            Two weeks went by of me sitting alone in that empty apartment, and after two weeks I couldn’t keep the thoughts out anymore. I had saved that man. He was my mission, and not only did I choose not to kill him—I jumped in the water after him and _saved_ him. I had saved my enemy.

            He _knew_ me.

            Not the way my handlers knew me. To them I was the asset or the soldier. If they were especially proud of my accomplishments, they called me Winter Soldier to my face. I was programmed to feel satisfaction when they did. _Zimniy Soldat_. Even if I think it now, I can’t help but feel a shiver of pride. That meant something. _I_ meant something. I wasn’t even allowed to think of myself as a person, but still, when I was the soldier, it was an important thing to be.

            But he _knew_ me. He had a name for me I’d never heard before, and even though I’ve had many names, no one has ever quite looked at me with that same expression of heartbreak and shock like when we stood on the street and he called me Bucky.

            In the moment, it was like nothing, it rolled off me, but the second I was away from him, the adrenaline leeching away, my insides splintered. I kept seeing this little boy. I wondered if I’d seen the man on a previous mission, years earlier. It could have been the same person. Blond, blue eyed—he must have had a hell of a growth spurt, because the boy I kept seeing was tiny. He looked about nine, but I knew he was twelve. He was twelve and he was laughing at me so hard he could barely breathe and I had been so worried that he was going to have an attack, but I couldn’t tell him to stop because he was so _happy_.

            It wasn’t like when Killian’s guard set me off. I didn’t ask for a reset. But by the time they got me back to the safe house, I was broken all the way through. I even started seeing Zola, seeing myself after I fell off the train. All the time, that face was with me, those blue eyes that I knew were also green. I just kept saying the same thing, even though I knew it was verging on disobedience: _I knew him_.

            I didn’t remember that part until about three months after DC. It all comes back in such strange, misshapen pieces, and sometimes I can put it in the right order—it’s easier and easier now—but at the start it was just this jumble of images and facts and faces.

            So two weeks after the carriers crashed in the Potomac, when it became clear that there might be no one alive to collect me, I allowed the memories to come in a little. The man I saved was in all the papers I saw on the streets, he was on all the TVs. Captain America. There was an article about how the events in DC caused record numbers of people to visit his exhibit at the Smithsonian.

            I went. It was foolish. To go into a crowd like that to gather information. But I was malfunctioning. I’d suffered a serious breach and my head was trying to fill with all these things that seemed like what they told me dreams were, only I don’t dream.

            That’s when I saw myself. The face was obviously my own. A little fuller, the eyes brighter. It was an old picture. I knew I had been in service for many years, but the display said that this James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes had died in 1944. That was seventy years. I had been in service for seventy years, and before that I had been James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes.

            I went outside and threw up.

            The next day I was using the last of my cognitive resources to schedule a plane out of the States. I had to get as far from the source of the memories as possible, because now they were just crashing in.

            For the next year I simply hid. All the time these old memories were shoving their way into my head, which was already overcrowded. I took myself away from people and spent most of my days just laying down, shaking.

            My mind was coming apart. And I was scared that they’d come for me.

            Who? Any of them. HYDRA. SHIELD. Captain America. There were days when I would have killed anyone, paid anything, gotten down on my hands and knees and begged for a reset. God, please, just reset me.

            Not because of what I’ve done. That I haven’t reckoned with, if I ever will. I mean the sheer overwhelming mass of the information trying to correct itself inside my head.

            I stayed ahead of the people who came for me. Steve was tenacious, but I had no intention of seeing that face again. That face is what caused all of this. He made everything confusing. He made everything terrifying, the truth be told. I didn’t know what would happen if I actually spoke to him.

            After all those years of being surrounded by people, told what to do, it was hard to adjust to the constant solitude. Now that I can remember more, I think the longest I was ever out of cryo at once was a month. And the longest I was ever allowed to be on my own was a week for a mission. After DC, I was completely on my own, expected to care for myself in a world that I was unfamiliar with.

            I adapt quickly.

            There was a lot of me that wanted to be around people. I was used to agents and handlers and doctors, and now there was no one. Only myself. At the same time, I was wrapping myself around my selfhood like it was the most precious thing in the world, and I was prepared to destroy anyone who tried to take it away from me.

            So I hid in cities, where I could always hear voices, and I spoke to no one.

            Eventually, I started to settle. My brain wasn’t mush. I could begin putting together a chronology, and I was able to think about my next move instead of acting on instinct.

            I had been or was the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier was an assassin. Many people would want to hurt the Winter Soldier. I wanted to stay alive. Therefore, I had to conceal myself.

            Steve Rogers believed I was his long lost friend Bucky Barnes. But I had seventy years or five years or ten years of memories between myself and when this body was called by that name. I was worried about him taking me into custody, but the truth is, I was more ashamed of my weakness than anything.

            That and I was furious with him.

            I learned to be okay with my own company. It wasn’t a default setting to avoid detection. When you’re by yourself, you can choose. Choose what? Everything. Anything. I could choose what I ate. What I wore. What I did. Where I went. When a person is alone, that is when they have autonomy.

            I can sit here, out in the snow, under the stars. I can listen to the sound of planes in the distance, the faint whistle of sirens as they try to respond to the crisis in Okha. I imagine the town is levelled. It’s not the first time I’ve visited a town and it’s ceased to exist within a few hours. How many were in Okha? 25000?

            How many lives are worth the life of Captain America?

            I have my answer—I’ve always had my answer—but I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Seeing him again has made things increasingly complex. I’m glad to be away from him for a while.

            I imagine he’s glad to be away from me.

            My eyes catch the movement of a satellite across the sky, and I wonder whose eye watches from it.

 

It’s close to eleven when I walk back. I assume Steve is still in the house with Sam. He’s probably standing watch.

            I don’t bother going to check. I go straight to the trailer. When I try the door, it opens easily, not even a squeak.

            Stepping up inside, I close it silently behind myself. It’s dark, and quiet. The place is well kept, unlike the outside, which is meant to deter any outsiders who made a very wrong turn. Everything is clean, and in its place. I crouch, and untie my boots. Slipping out of them, I set them next to the others.

            The place is small. I’m in the kitchen and living room at the same time. There’s a closed door at the end of the trailer. Semyon lays on an old orange couch under an afghan, unmoving and breathing softly.

            I walk carefully across the linoleum. As I pass the boy, I see that his eyes are open, and he’s watching me without blinking in the dark. I hold his eyes a moment, then continue to the end of the trailer.

            I don’t knock on the door. I simply go inside, and close the door after me.

            Lidiya lays in bed, her head turned towards the door. She watches me, much like Semyon just did. Without any fuss, I unbutton my coat, setting it on an old wooden chair, then I strip my shirt over my head. As I push off my pants and underwear and socks in one go, she pulls back the sheets, letting me see that she’s naked too. I climb into bed with her, and she lifts her head so I can push my flesh arm under her neck. She drapes the sheets across us, and we lay down, wrapping our arms around one another.

            For a long moment, we do nothing. She’s stroking her fingertips over my metal arm. The sensation is comforting. Feather light. She’s turned against my body.

            “It was a long day,” she says. “I don’t think I can offer you sex tonight.”

            “That’s fine.”

            “If you even want this old woman.”

            “I would. And I’m much, much older than you.”

            She nestles her face against my shoulder, and murmurs, “Semyon thinks you’re handsome.”

            “Huh. Does he.” I look down at her, and she looks back. “He’s not my grandson, is he?”

            Lidiya laughs softly against me. “No. You asked if Vladlina was your daughter before you slept with her, too.”

            “I don’t remember.”

            Her hand strokes my jaw. “I know, soldier.”

            “You won’t mind about Semyon?”

            “Of course not. You know me. Rarely sentimental.” Lidiya lays her hand on my chest, and I thread my fingers through her hair. “What do you remember about you and I?”

            “Kiev. I remember all of Kiev.”

            “Oh. The good old days. Early days. I did worry about the times after, but you gave me permission in Kiev.”

            “You always made me satisfied.”

            “As did you for me.”

            I caress her hair. It runs all the way down her back, just like it did when she was a girl. “They made you put up your hair. But when it was you and I, you’d take it down.”

            “Yes.”

            “You’d talk to me like I was a real person.”

            “Yes. You never did the same after Kiev, but I knew you couldn’t. Still—I always liked you.”

            “You know most people would think we were insane.”

            “We are insane. We are the last survivors of a mad world, clinging to the surface as it spins ever closer to the sun.” She laughs again. “Or something like that.”

            “Your hair,” I go back to. “It was always your hair that got me. I don’t know what it is.”

            “It’s not the colour it used to be.”

            “That doesn’t matter.” I hold the strands in my fingers, lightly twisting it. “It’s how you’d let it down—“

            It’s not a crack this time. It’s like a little door that opens up, and light comes shining through.

            “Son of a bitch,” I say in English.

           

I don’t have my coat on, and it’s cold, cold enough that even I notice. I threw on my pants and shirt and boots and jogged out here into the woods.

            I’m not even sure why I’m doing it. But I feel like I have to, so I’m doing it.

            I reach the hatch in the ground, and type in the code. The door unseals, and I slip down inside. The lights are still on, but they’ve been brought low.

            Steve is waking up. He’s sitting at the end of Sam’s bed, and I don’t even get mad at that. I can’t have everything, but I have this, I have this memory that’s good and true and sad.

            Blinking and half asleep, Steve says, “What’s wrong—“

            I clap a hand over his mouth, and he wakes up completely. Bending down to look into his blue eyes, I say, “Emily McConnell was the first woman I ever slept with. She was gorgeous and smelled like Chanel No. 5 and she had this beautiful curly hair she always kept pinned up but she took out all the pins for me and it was like nothing I’d ever seen.” I feel his mouth turning upwards under my hand. I can feel the change in his cheeks too. “I told you what I’d done, I only told you, and you were so mad at me for sleeping with a married woman that you didn’t speak to me for three days. Six months later, she died of cancer, and I cried on your back step and you just kept patting my back and telling me everything would be okay. And I said I’d love her and you until the end of time, and I will.”

            Darting forward, I put a hand to the back of his head, and I give him a fierce kiss on the forehead.

            Then I turn, and I leave as quickly as I arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I'm always looking for people to talk to about geekery, fandom, lit, history, and all things LGBTQ, so come find me on Tumblr:  
> [e-sebastian.tumblr.com](%E2%80%9De-sebastian.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)  
> Also, I actually learned how to embed a link. I'm stupidly impressed with myself right now.  
> Update: that link worked perfectly yesterday and now it doesn't. I don't know what the problem is, but anyway, that's the right address to find me on Tumblr.


	14. The Sailor

_It’s loud enough that I don’t hear him the first few times he hollers my name. But finally, he roars, “BARNES!” and I look up. Old chrome dome looks mighty pissed._

_I turn off my torch and put my goggles up on my forehead. “Yeah, boss?”_

_“Don’t ‘yeah boss’ me.” Morrison gestures me over._

_Putting down the torch, I move around my station and walk over to him, tugging off my gloves. My hands are used to this work after five years, but I still don’t like wearing these big thick gloves. Holding them in my left hand, I say, “Yes, Mr. Morrison?”_

_He’s scowling hard, and I’m trying to figure out what I’ve done. I can’t think of anything lately._

_“How’d you feel about more money?”_

_I stare at him a second, then answer, “I’d feel pretty good about that.”_

_He nods, working his jaw, then says, “We’re gonna bump you up another twenty five cents a day. Good?”_

_“Yes sir.”_

_“Good.” He looks around, sucking in his cheeks. “You ever think about becoming an inspector?”_

_My old man has failed the exam for that twice, and I think he’d hit me with a brick if I ever tried for it. “Sure, I’ve thought about it.”_

_“Keep thinking about it. Let me know if you need a hand.” Stepping away, he grimaces even more, and says, “All right, back to work.”_

_He’s already walking away from me as I say with a grin, “Yessir.”_

_I swagger back to my table. Seeing Morrison so miserable puts a smile on my face. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s like Steve says, and I’m just perverse._

_I’m not doing anything difficult today. I can arc weld or spot weld, in any position they need. I’ve gone out on the ships and I’ve climbed beams and never had an accident. I’ve got great blinkers and good hands for the work. Today they’ve got me with the new people, keeping an eye on them, but there’s always new people here these days. There’s tens of thousands of us here now._

_I snap my goggles back over my eyes, looking at the world through a filter. Sure, I’m supposed to watch the new people, but I’ve never been good with keeping my hands still. I pick up my torch, opening up the acetylene valve, and click a friction lighter in front of it. Flame shoots out, and I turn on the oxygen, adjusting it until the flame’s a short bright blue._

_“How you doing, Harris?” I ask the guy next to me._

_“Did that bald son of a bitch just give you a raise?”_

_Picking up my rod, I reply cheerfully, “You bet he did, pally.”_

_“Guess I know who I need to jerk off around here.”_

_I snicker, and bend down, my entire field of vision filling with sparks and molten metal and fire._

_Fifteen minutes later, the break whistle goes off. I finish what I’m doing, then hang my torch on the wall and step back. Lifting my goggles off my head, I use my whole arm to wipe off my face._

_Then I see him._

_The sailor. That’s how I think of him. About my height, blue eyed and blond haired and always looks like he needs to shave. I see him every few weeks around here. He’s actual navy, unlike most of us. He catches my eye, and I catch it back. Then I look down, sticking my goggles in my apron pocket._

_“All right, folks, let us escape in a safe and orderly manner,” I say over everyone. “Do not trample your fellow welders in your desperation to get to the chow.”_

_I yank off my gloves, waving them onwards. They’re all relieved to get out of here for a while, just like I am. I’m used to the heat and the bodies and the smell, but every day when I leave here I still stop outside, even if only for a second, so I can breathe._

_I catch sight of that blond head again, down the corridor. He’s still looking back at me._

_Aw, that’s a bad idea, Buck._

_I jiggle the gloves in my hand a little, staying where I am, and Podniewski, who’s new to the yards but who I’ve known since he was a baby, says, “You coming, Bucky?”_

_“I gotta take care of something.” I smack his arm with my gloves absentmindedly. “You have a good break, and let me know if anyone makes a good Polack joke.”_

_“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it, ya stupid mick.”_

_I grin, and move against the flow of the crowd. I slip my gloves into the other pocket in my thick apron. As I go, I’m putting my hands up, smoothing back my hair. It doesn’t feel like as much of a mess as it could be. Maybe it’s because I sprung for actual Brylcreem instead of a knockoff, which I get no end of grief for at home._

_It’s stupid. I know this is stupid. Yeah, I’ve seen him look at me before, and if it was somewhere else—basically anywhere else—I would have done something about it months ago. Or years. Christ, has he been around here since I started in ’36?_

_But I haven’t done anything about it because it’s a dumb idea and it’s where I work and I am surrounded by people who know me and my family and Steve and it is just a monumentally terrible idea._

_I follow him down the hall._

_What the hell. I got a raise. I’m feeling reckless._

_He’s about twenty feet ahead of me. He takes me down a flight, then disappears behind some pipes. I pause at the stairs, biting my lower lip a second. I don’t stay there long, though. I push myself off the railing and go after him._

_He’s tucked into a little corner, ear bent towards the pipes that run along the wall. He catches my eye, and looks me over. He’s a few years older than me._

_Sauntering over, I say, “Howdy, sailor.”_

_Snorting, he says, “Took you long enough.”_

_He hooks two fingers into my collar and tugs me forward and kisses me._

_I go totally still, because he’s shocked the hell out of me. I put my hands on his arms, pushing myself back an inch. He says, “What?”_

_His eyes are blue, but they’re not the same blue as Steve’s. Steve’s have little green pieces in them. This guy’s eyes are like ice, laugh lines coming from the corners. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse._

_“Most guys don’t want to kiss,” I reply._

_“What, you want me to apologize?”_

_I think about it for approximately a second, then say, “Christ no.” I sink my hands into his hair and press my mouth against his, slipping my tongue inside him and tasting._

_I haven’t kissed another guy in years, but I like it. The other men I’ve been with seem to think it’s sissy to want to do it, but this feels anything but sissy, our teeth clanking together and his spit in my mouth and his big hands crushing me up against him. I’m a little smaller than him, and usually I don’t like that, I like being the bigger guy, but this isn’t bad at all._

_He’s already unfastening the back of my apron, and I keep him pressed back against the wall, possessive, electric, burning. Anyone could walk by. Fucking anybody, and I love that._

_“You know how long you kept me waiting?” he teases._

_“How long?” I reply against his mouth. I keep one hand to the back of his head, but the other moves down. Taking firm hold of him, grinning at how he has to bite his lips together, I bump my forehead against his. “Feels like a long time. You been waiting? Aw, sweetheart, why didn’t you say anything?”_

_“Christ, you are a fucking tease—“ He gasps as I knead him through his pants, then he grabs the neck of my apron, yanking on it so that I nearly choke. Glaring at me, he growls, “Get this thing off now, pretty boy—“_

_We hear footsteps, and both of us go silent and still. Instead of immediately moving away from him, I go closer. He’s holding his breath._

_There’s a second set of footsteps, faster, and someone says, “Hey, Tommy, wait up.”_

_“Robert! Hey, whadya know!”_

_I have my chin on his shoulder, and my hand on his cock, and what the hell. I squeeze._

_He jerks in my grasp, grabs my shoulders so hard that maybe I’ll bruise. Or not. I’m pretty hard to bruise. I unbutton his pants with a graze of the thumb, and reach inside._

_Robert and Tommy aren’t going anywhere, having a good old conversation about wives and kids and the Dodgers, because get a couple of us together and it’ll always end up coming around to the Dodgers, and meanwhile I’m stroking off a complete stranger in the corner about fifteen feet from where they’re standing, and I think it’s hilarious._

_The sailor’s grip on me doesn’t lessen, and I start kissing along his jaw. I wonder if he’ll like this. Girls like it when you kiss them there, but a guy hasn’t let me do this before. I guess I kind of have the poor guy at my mercy, but in my defense he did start it._

_The way he tilts his head back, breath vibrating in his throat, I get the impression he likes it._

_Robert and Tommy finally move on, and it’s not until we hear them at the top of the stairs that the sailor shakes his head at me. “You’re_ crazy _,” he whispers._

_Smirking, I say, “You want to hear crazy?” I jerk my head towards the pipes that run along his head. “That’s acetylene and oxygen in there. You know what those two do together, don’t you, sweetheart?” I squeeze him tighter, and he groans. “They ignite. We—are standing on a power keg right now. We’re not just standing on it—we’re standing in it. What do you think about that, soldier boy? Just a single spark, and we’re all blown to kingdom come. And I work with fucking fire.”_

_I lean forward, biting into his ear. He whimpers, putty in my hands. They always are._

_I whisper to him, “Why don’t you go ahead and do that for me, sailor? Why don’t you do that?” I put my lips up to his ear, and I tell him to ignite._

_“Jesus, Steve.”_

_He shakes his head, stubborn as always. “Nope. Nothing wrong.”_

_I hang my hat on the hook, and my jacket next to it. “Nothing wrong.”_

_He’s sitting on our ratty little couch, a book on his knees. “I am perfectly fine.”_

_I put my hands on my hips, looking him over. He has a black eye and a split lip, and he’s avoiding my gaze. “What was it this time?” I ask. “Defending some dame’s honour? Did you get in the way of some guy giving his kid a smack? What?”_

_“I don’t want to talk about it.”_

_The guy is twenty three years old, and I swear to Christ he gets beat up more now than when we were kids. At least when we were kids, I was at school with him all day and we’d be together after, so I could take care of him. Now I’m at work and he’s at work and there are days that I come home and he has some new bruise on his face and it drives me crazy that he does this to himself._

_I flop down on the end of the couch, giving his knee a shove even though he’s already got them almost up to his chest. He kicks me in the thigh, tight little scowl on his face._

_“You gonna be in an evil mood all evening?” I ask._

_“Dunno. Are you gonna be a jerk?”_

_“I don’t think me coming home and asking how you got a shiner is me being a jerk.”_

_“It is, cause you get all up in arms about it, and I don’t need anybody defending me. I’m not some—damsel in distress. I can take care of myself.”_

_“You buttoned your shirt wrong.”_

_He glances down, blushing. When he sees that it’s not true, he glares at me. “Like I said, you’re a real jerk.”_

_“The fact that you knew it was a possibility says more about you than it does me right now, Stevie.” I watch him pretending to read his book, but his eyes aren’t moving. They’re watching the same spot on the page, and I hate to see him so upset. I tap his knee with my fist, and say, “So? You gonna go with me to Coney this weekend?”_

_Brow creased, Steve says, “Why would I do that?”_

_Holding out a hand, I say, “Mitt me, kid.”_

_He gives it a shake, asking, “What are we celebrating?”_

_“Got a raise.”_

_He goes from being mad to grinning in about two seconds. “Get out of here.” He smacks my arm before settling back. He gets this devilish little smile on his face. “Morrison?”_

_“Aw, he hated every second of it, Stevie. It was a thing of beauty.” I chew on the side of my mouth a moment, and shrug. “It’s only twenty five cents more a day.”_

_“Jeez Louise, Buck, that’s plenty.”_

_I love how he won’t cuss. He never has. I don’t know if he ever will. That’s just Steve._

_Then his face falls, and he says, “You’re not gonna—I mean, are your shifts going to change or anything?”_

_I realize what he’s worried about, and I crack up a little. “Same hours, same old thing. I’ll still take that stupid art class with you.”_

_“It’s not stupid, it’s—“_

_“I’m kidding, Steve.” He’s got that face on right now. The one where his blinkers narrow and I know he wants to tell me something but he knows I’ll say no. Dropping my head back on the couch, I say, “Spit it out, Rogers.”_

_Steve closes his book, thin fingers wrapping around the top of it. Steve’s 5’4” and he says he’s a 100 pounds, but I swear he’s maybe 95—only he’s got these long fingers that are too big for his body, just like his head. They’re tough hands, too. The guy has to throw enough punches._

_“What about sculpting?”_

_“What about it?” I say, oblivious. Then it clicks, and I groan. “Steve—c’mon—“_

_“Buck, you were great at that. Top of our class. I can draw, yeah, but I’m average when it comes to three dimensional stuff—you won that prize and everything—“_

_“Steve,” I say with a small laugh. “I busted my hump doing two years of art school with you, working eight hour shifts at the navy yard five or six days a week. And we_ starved _. We were both beat. I ain’t doing that again.”_

_“I’m not—I’m not saying go back to school, I’m saying just do something. You know, other than reading your books about space or talking yourself up to girls.”_

_“I don’t have to talk myself up at all, Stevie. They just flock to me.” I give him the grin and a wink. “I’m always on active duty.”_

_“Yeah, you got a real gift,” he says, unimpressed. He shifts in his seat, and I can tell that he’s actually excited about this, that he means it. “Buck, you’re great with metal—“_

_“And I get paid for it at the yard. Sorry, pal. No dice.”_

_I’m nothing special. Just a welder who’s good with girls and guys and who happens to have the best friend a man could ever asked for. I don’t need any more than that._

_Steve sits back, obviously disappointed. I jostle him, and smile. “I’ll still take that stupid art class with you, though.”_

_He grins despite himself, and says, “The day I met you, I should have known you’d be trouble.”_

_I snort. “Yeah. I’m the one who’s trouble.” I look over his face. His right eye is swollen a little, the whole thing a shade of purple. “So? You gonna tell me who I have to hate this week?” Steve frowns, looking down. His hair falls across his forehead, and he pushes it back with those too long fingers. “I’m not going to do anything about it. You’re right, you’re not a damsel in distress, and I’m too old to fight your battles for you. Just let me know who I need to hate.”_

_Colour rises back up into his cheeks, all the way to where they freckle. Blowing out a breath, Steve looks away from me as he says, “Don Piersen.”_

_I raise my brows. I know I’m staring, but I can’t stop myself. “Don Piersen,” I echo, and Steve turns a brighter shade of red. “Little Donnie Piersen. Eighteen year old Donnie Piersen.”_

_“Yeah,” Steve says defiantly. “Eighteen year old Donnie Piersen.”_

_“What the hell’d you get into it with him for?”_

_“He was hassling Charlie.”_

_“Charlie who? Charlie Ferguson? I know Charlie don’t need no help from the likes of you, buddy.”_

_“Charlie Hurlihy.”_

_It takes me a second, because the name isn’t familiar, but then it hits me. Eyes widening, I exclaim, “Drunk Charlie? You got into it with Donnie Piersen—because of Drunk Charlie?”_

_“Yeah. So what if I did?”_

_“So how about that bum has puked in front of our building like three times in the last month? What do you want to go helping him for?”_

_“Because he’s a person,” Steve says stubbornly, “just like everybody else, Buck.”_

_“God, you’re such a Commie.”_

_“I don’t care,” Steve shrugs. “I don’t care if he is a drunk. There’s no reason that kid should be bothering him.”_

_“There’s sure as hell no reason why you should be mouthing off to a kid that’s bigger than I am. And sure as hell not over Drunk Charlie.”_

_Steve gives me that cool blue gaze when he’s convinced he’s right and I know that nothing I say or do will shake him. “I’d do it again. My life isn’t worth more than anyone else’s.”_

_I roll my eyes. He is such a naïve sap sometimes. “Steve, let me break it to you. You’re worth at least ten of Drunk Charlie. Maybe even twelve on a good day.” I lean over and raise a brow at him. “Even if you do try and beat on eighteen year olds. For shame, Rogers.” He shakes his head at me, unable to stop his smile. I prop my head up, and say, “So? Coney? You and me?”_

_Suspicious, Steve says, “You, me, and who else?”_

_“No one. It’ll be just like when we were kids and you were scared of girls.” I lift a hand. “Oh, wait. Guess not a lot has changed, huh.”_

_“You’re hysterical,” he responds, opening his book back up. “And you smell, too.”_

_I sniff my shirt. “Yeah. Guess I do. So yes to Coney?”_

_“Yes. I’m gonna beat you with the guns this time.”_

_We both know he won’t. I’m a dead shot, even if the only gun I’ve ever handled was at the fair, and Steve’s almost blind in one eye. Pushing myself up, I say, “Stranger things could happen. And since I know it’ll bug you, I’m paying.”_

_“You are not.”_

_“My raise, my celebration. Live with it, Rogers, you’re not going to spend a cent.”_

_Frustrated, Steve says, “Bucky, I’m not your date.”_

_Putting my hands to my heart, I say in mock hurt, “But Stevie, you know you’re my girl.”_

_He’s so disgusted that he just says, “Ugh,” and goes back to reading. Only he’s a smiling a little, because somehow I always manage to make Steve smile._

_I go to the bathroom, turning on the water, and have a glance at myself in the mirror. Hair’s okay. That’s the most important thing._

_What the hell’s going on with my mouth? It looks kind of scratched up around it. Reaching up, I wonder if I’ve caught something from Steve. He’s always sick with something._

_Then I realize my face was rubbing up against the sailor’s stubble, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing myself sick._

_Later, we’re in bed and I’m awake, even though it’s close to midnight._

_We still share the same mattress. Our place is small and we like it and it’s home. Nobody except my family knows we sleep in the same room. Dad made a crack about Steve being a gunsel, and it’s the only time I’ve ever hit my old man in the face. He thought I was offended that anyone would say something like that about Steve, but I was more angry and frustrated than anything. I’m the one who’s supposed to have something to be ashamed of, even though I’m not. Steve looks at girls with curly brown hair. He doesn’t look at me._

_But we sleep in the same bed, because we’re poor and because neither of us has ever suggested otherwise. We used to sleep in shifts, only now that our schedules are the same it seems silly. So here we are, me next to Steve, and I’m laying here with an arm under my head, gazing at the ceiling._

_I don’t think I’ll ever follow that blond guy at work again. Not that I didn’t have fun. I did. But usually, once I’ve had a person, I don’t go back. I’m never mean about it. More often than not, people seem fine with it—I’ve got a reputation, I guess, and girls are rarely cross at me when I say my thanks and goodbyes, and guys aren’t exactly in it to get married anyways. Thing is, I’m already plenty settled. I’ve got as much as I’m ever going to have._

_Steve starts to whimper. He’s turned on his side, his back to me. He’s all curled up, like usual. He starts to twitch a bit. For as long as I can remember, he’s had nightmares._

_So I do what I always do. I put my hand on his head, and pet his hair, and I murmur, “It’s okay, Stevie. Everything’s okay.”_

_He settles down, and I keep stroking his hair, until I fall asleep._


	15. Sam

We’ve been here three days when Steve comes to me, looking reluctant and sheepish at the same time.

            “So, uh—“ He crouches down next to the couch. I’m sitting here reading _A Knife in the Heart Again_ for old time’s sake. Semyon is been splayed across an easy chair with the stuffing coming out of one arm, reading _Two Worlds_. Lidiya’s library kind of has a theme. Steve weaves his fingers together, bouncing on his haunches, and tells me, “Sam’s getting pretty sick of my face.”

            “I bet,” I respond, not looking up from my book.

            “He basically told me to go take a hike, so I’m going to do that. But, uh—Lidiya? Seems to want to go with me.”

            “Okay,” I say, turning the page.

            Steve clears his throat, and I finally look up. He glances back at Semyon, who doesn’t seem to notice we exist. I’ve heard the kid speak twice since we got here. Steve says under his breath, “He doesn’t speak English, does he?”

            “Not that I know of.” It’s not actually a lie, because I don’t know if Semyon speaks English or not.

            Steve asks, “Am I gonna go for a walk on the beach with this woman and get myself shot?”

            Vaguely amused, I reply, “She’s a sixty four year old grandmother.”

            He’s not buying it. “She’s Natasha Romanoff in thirty years.”

            “Natasha won’t live that long.”

            Steve inhales, like he does when I’ve said something that’s given myself away as not quite human. “Why does this woman want to go for a walk with me? She doesn’t speak English either. Or French. I tried French.”

            “You are being pretty ridiculous right now.”

            “You told me she murdered her husband. You also told me that she once strangled a SHIELD agent with piano wire.”

            “No, I mean you’re being ridiculous because she wants to make sure that you don’t do anything stupid. I’m not going to babysit you the entire time we’re here. It’s her turn to keep an eye on you.”

            Steve gazes at me a moment, then says, “Oh.” He presses his lips together. “I guess that—makes a little more sense than a gunshot to the back of the head.”

            He doesn’t look convinced, so I close my book and reach under the couch. I pull out a little pistol and offer it to him. “Take this with you, if it’ll make you feel better.”

            Arching a brow at me, Steve pushes himself to his feet. “Fine. You’re real funny.”

            I hold it out further. “If it’ll give you peace of mind.”

            Steve frowns at me, and the door opens. Lidiya takes a step inside, and lifts an arm towards the outdoors. Steve smiles politely, and says, “Guess we’re going for a walk. Holster that sidearm, soldier.” He goes outside, the cold starting to seep in.

            Lidiya looks between Semyon and me and states, “We’ll be back in forty five minutes.” She leaves, closing the door firmly behind herself.

            I lean down, slipping the gun back under the couch. I pick my book back up, flipping to my page.

            After thirty seconds, Semyon gets off the chair and goes to the northern window. He holds the curtain back an inch, leaning his head to watch them go.

            When he’s satisfied that they’re far enough away, he turns back and looks right at me. He walks over to the couch, and strips his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. He is frail and strong at the same time, scars from some fight dotting his torso. His dark eyes are boring into me.

            I give him a once over. Shrugging, I say, “Sure,” and put my book down.

 

Sometimes Lidiya and I had sex. The first time I can remember is in the ‘70s, when we met. It was one of the rare occasions that I ran continuously for near to a month, allowed to keep memories instead of only my training. We got in a battle, we were cut off, and she wanted to bed me. I wasn’t programmed for dealing with a request like that. She said she wanted to give me physical satisfaction. I complied. I was satisfied. We continued.

            I slept with her daughter too. Vladlina was an assassin, and didn’t say much. We were sent on a mission together, and when we were done, she said she wanted to give me satisfaction. It triggered a response. I’d slept with Lidiya enough times, and I understood what she meant. So we slept together the once.

            Now I’m with a third Nyengun, and I can’t help comparing him to the others, and that’s still not even in the top one hundred strangest things to ever happen to me.

            He’s a different person in this moment. He is all eye contact and confidence, straddling my lap and riding me with rolls of the hips as he breathes steadily in and out. I’m sitting up, using my flesh arm to hold him and my metal arm to keep myself propped up. I move against him and with him, wanting to be deeper in him, really liking how black his eyes are.

            His fingernails dig into the back of my shoulders, and I grit my teeth together. Grabbing onto a handful of his hair, I yank. Semyon groans, and claws a hand down my back. _Jesus_ —that feels amazing. My metal hand twitches, wanting to touch him.

            I make it stay where it is. I’m probably forty kilos heavier than him, which would do enough damage. I have a hard time controlling myself when I’m not in a battle, and my brain has been shocked and reshocked so many times that God only knows if someday I’ll just snap. All that’s bad enough—I really don’t need to throw a vibranium arm into the mix with this guy.

            I lift my hips off the couch, able to hold myself up, grinding upwards into him. His eyes close, and he lets out a moan that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I haven’t made a man do that in seventy years. He’s the first man I’ve had at all in seventy years.

There have been two women since DC, only I paid for both of them, just to see if I could actually orgasm or if that was another thing about me that was broken. The first attempt was a failure, the second a success. I was really scared both times. Scared I’d hurt them with my arm.

            I’m not scared right now. No. What I’m feeling isn’t fear. It’s not even in the ball park.

            Semyon opens his eyes, breath coming between his teeth. This time I swear he draws blood on my back.

            There’s a sudden pounding on the door. “Barnes!”

            Semyon doesn’t stop, so I follow his lead and I don’t stop either. “I’m busy,” I call back, holding Semyon’s side in my hand.

            “The hell you are—“

            The door opens, and we stop as Sam climbs inside.

            I hear a “Whoa!” and I tilt my head to the side in time to see Sam whirl around, facing the opposite direction.

            Semyon lets out a disgusted sigh. He turns and growls over his shoulder in thickly accented English, “He says he’s _busy_.”

            Wagging a finger at the roof, Sam says, “Yes—yes he did. Okay then.” He leaves the trailer as quickly as he can with three healing gunshot wounds. He forgets to close the door. About three seconds after he’s outside, he comes back and yanks the door closed.

            I roll my eyes.

            I get a sharp pain as Semyon tugs viciously on the back of my hair. I’ve committed the sin of looking anyone other than him. He leans forward, hissing softly.

            God, I love that. I actually fucking _love_ that. I lick his mouth, and he shows me pointed teeth, and we continue.

 

About twenty minutes later, I walk down to the edge of the beach with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders instead of a coat. I like the blanket. It smells like the Nyenguns.

            It’s easy to spot Sam. He’s in an old HYDRA uniform too, only he’s wearing one of the parkas. He’s on a log where Lidiya goes at night to smoke and watch the stars move over the water. It’s begun to snow.

            He glances up when I come over, then back out to the strait. He clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

            “What’s so important?” I ask.

            “Oh—right. Yeah, I was gonna yell at you for almost killing me.”

            “You’re being dramatic.”

            “ _Dramatic_?” Sam repeats incredulously. “I got shot three times, and then you threw a _grenade_ at me.”

            “I had a split second to determine a course of action that wouldn’t be predictable to MODOK. Steve seemed intent on getting himself killed because he doesn’t understand the enemy, so I had to take lead. Anyone who worked with Steve would never endanger their teammates, the wounded, or civilians. It was the only thing I could think of before the drone killed you both.” I reach out and catch a few snowflakes in my hand. They melt immediately, so I switch to my metal hand. “What would you have done?” He doesn’t reply, so I look at him, and say, “That wasn’t rhetorical. I’d actually like to know what you would have done.”

            Sam’s brow is furrowed, and the mouth that rests inside that goatee looks awfully unhappy. “I don’t know. Sure as hell wouldn’t have thrown a grenade at either of you.”

            “I’m not sure why you’re complaining. We’re all alive.”

            “Man, do you understand how close you got to killing—“

            “Steve is predictable,” I state firmly. “He’s always been predictable. I think he’s only ever surprised me three or four times in the last ninety years. Maybe a few more times that I can’t remember. But Steve always does what’s right.” I shake my head. “The enemy could anticipate that. But I anticipated it too. I knew Steve would use the shield to protect you both. That’s Steve. In a nutshell.”

            “And you, almost getting us all killed. That’s you in a nutshell.”

            “The operative word here is ‘almost,’ right?”

            Sam lets out a soft snort, but he doesn’t sound pleased about it.

            A small pile of snow is gathering in my left hand. Big fluffy flakes that stick to one another. I count them, and then tell him, “I was…impressed that you managed to get on the drone.”

            “That’s your idea of a compliment, isn’t it.”

            “Yes.”

            Sam stretches his legs out, wincing. After a moment, he says, “Don’t be too impressed. I’ve been going over it in my head, and if what you say about this thing is true, then—it probably let me get on it. You know how they always say that breaking ranks, running, that’s the most dangerous time for a soldier?”

            “Because their backs are turned.”

            “Yeah, well, that’s just common sense. The second most dangerous moment? When you think you’re scored a victory.” He puts his thumb and forefinger close together. “You get just a little bit complacent, and then bam. That’s when they hit you. I think that thing did what you did to us, only it doesn’t give a shit because it was just blowing up a machine. Wound one of your own to win the battle.”

            “I know. Only the kind of logic a machine would come up with.”

            “Or just someone really messed up who doesn’t value human life that much.”

            I shrug. “I value human life. Just not equally.”

            “What’s that mean when it’s at home?”

            “It means I don’t think everyone is equal. I value some over others.”

            “Some? Have you _got_ more than Steve?”

            “I suppose I consider you useful enough, Pigeon.”

            “Useful. I bet you think that’s another compliment, don’t you.” Sam shakes his head. “And cut it out with this Pigeon thing you’ve started.”

            “Why? It’s accurate enough.”

            “Keep talking, man. You look like if Kurt Cobain took steroids and then overdosed on heroin, only five minutes after.” Sam rubs a hand over his head, and sighs. “Goddamn, you make me mean. I don’t like being mean.”

            “What’s wrong with being mean?”

            “People don’t like it. I don’t like it in myself.”

            “All right.” I can feel the coldness of the snowflakes setting off my temperature sensors. It’s like a tingling. “Can I ask you something?”

            “If I say no, you’ll just do it anyway, so go ahead.”

            “What would you be willing to do to save Steve’s life?”

            Sam pauses.

            “And I don’t mean what you’d do to save anyone’s life. Steve is worth more than most people. You and I both know that.”

            “Don’t—“

            “We both know that,” I say quietly.

            Sam chews on his lips for a few seconds, then shrugs. “I dunno. I was willing to side with you when you took us into that town. That’s destroyed, thanks to us.”

            “Yeah, thanks to you and Steve being dumb enough to carry cell phones.”

            “Listen—“ He clenches his hands into fists, then releases them. “You were right about that. Okay? I’m sorry. Only time I’m going to say it. So let’s move past it.”

            “I appreciate that. But the question was—what would you do to save Steve?”

            “A lot. He’s my best friend.” Sam lifts his hands, and says, “Before you go getting your pretty hair all in a knot, trust me. I know which one of us kids that Daddy likes best. But still. He’s the best friend that I have. He’s—hell, he’s Captain America. He’s saved the world.”

            I nod. “Exactly. How many times has Steve saved the world? How many people save the world once, let alone multiple times? There’s some people—who cannot be sacrificed, or we may lose the entire world. So how do we weigh their worth against the lives of others?”

            Sam turns to me, perplexed. “Good grief. You’re going down deep, aren’t you.”

            “It’s just a question. I’m asking because I don’t know anyone in a situation…similar to mine. You understand Steve too. You know what he’s like. But my moral compass doesn’t exactly point to true north. I want to know what my answer is supposed to be.”

            “Tell me the real question.”

            “How many people’s lives are worth his?”

            “That’s an impossible question. You can’t—you can’t put a number on that.”

            “It would sure be easier, though,” I say wistfully. I cup my hand under the little pile of snow. “It’s still hard to think of him as that person. Steve Rogers, as the man who could save the world.” I think back, searching through my memories of him. “Did you know, that every year for Mother’s Day, he always made his mother a card. He’d draw her something and make it real pretty, and she’d be so happy about it. And after she died, he kept doing it. He would make her a card, and he’d take it out to the cemetery for her. Didn’t cry when she died, but kept making her cards. That’s the guy who fought Nazis, and HYDRA, and aliens. That’s the man who saves the world.” I turn my hand over, dumping the snow onto the ground. I shake my head, confused. “I still don’t understand how the two men are the same.”

            “You seem a little more like a person than usual. You’re remembering more.”

            “Yeah. All the time. I think being around him is making it worse.”

            “Worse?”

            “Would you want to remember all the things I have to remember?”

            “No,” Sam says adamantly. “Hell no.” He cracks his knuckles, then jerks his head back towards the trailer. “So does—Steve know about that?”

            “Semyon? I don’t know that he could. It just happened.”

            “No, I mean…the dude part.”

            “Oh.” I shake my head, watching a bird come down over the water. “No. He doesn’t know about that.”

            “Was that—I mean, was that a thing you did before, or is it just since--?”

            I cast him a withering gaze. “No. HYDRA didn’t just turn me into an assassin, they also made me queer. Because that’s how _that_ works.”

            Sam’s waving his hands, blushing. “Forget I said that. That was a stupid, stupid thing to say. I just—I mean, I’ve seen some things in my life, and that’s just one of those images I can’t scrub out of my mind.” He’s quick to say, “Not because of the gay. That’s fine. I’m all fine with the gay or the queer or whatever you want to call it. I just didn’t want to see _you_ doing that.”

            “Don’t worry, Sam. I’d be equally disgusted if I saw you even trying to put the moves on someone.”

            Sam lets out a single chuckle, then rocks back and forth a little before asking, “So—you and Steve--?”

            The bird skims the water, lifting up with a fish in its talons. “No,” I say flatly.

            “Not ever? Cause—I mean, everybody’s wondered—“

            “No. Not ever. It wasn’t like that.”

            “What was it like?”

            I shrug. “Steve was Bucky’s whole world. Bucky was in love with Steve, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about back then, and Steve never showed any signs of reciprocating.” I frown. “It’s honestly easier to deal with all the people I killed, because at least I don’t have to see them again. But he’s right there. Only I’m not Bucky Barnes. I’m just wearing his bones.”

            And he asks the question I keep asking myself, that Steve asked me. “If you’re not Bucky Barnes, who are you?”

            All of a sudden, I’m tired. So I’m honest, more honest than I should be. “Do I look like I fucking know?”

            Sam doesn’t say anything a moment. I’m glad. I don’t like being this open.

            “You should pick a name.”

            “What?”

            “Pick a name,” Sam says. “No offense to your mother or whoever the hell picked that name for you, but Buchanan? And Bucky’s even dumber. James? Do you want to be called James? Or something totally different?”

            “I don’t know,” I say, a bit flabbergasted.

            Sam thinks about it, then offers, “JB? That could be a whole bunch of different things.”

            It’s minimal. An acronym could stand for a variety of names. “That would be acceptable.”

            “Well, there you go. One problem off your list. Dealing with everything else, though, you’re on your own. You couldn’t _pay_ me enough to get near that.”

            “Please,” I reply. “I wouldn’t let you near my psyche with a ten foot pole.”

            “Even if I did come near it with a ten foot pole, it would be electrified. Or like one of those guns that they use to kill cattle with.” I smile at that, my second real smile since waking up from cryo, and Sam says, “Yeah, of course you’d find killing cows funny.”

            I let out a low _moo_.

            Sam cracks up, and puts a hand to the hole in his stomach. “Ow,” he laughs. “God damn it. Don’t do that.”

            I bend my head. It is a satisfying feeling, making someone laugh. Even if it’s Sam.

            Catching his breath, he says, “Man—what are we going to do?”

            I look at him. He’s still got a hand to his middle, a little smile on his face, but there’s something slightly desperate in his eyes. “About which part?” I ask.

            “All of it. Just all of it.” Sam shakes his head. “I haven’t seen my mother in eight months. I’ve got a niece I’ve never met. Couldn’t talk to my family—they all got pulled in and threatened with treason charges. Treason. After everything I did for my country. Everything I tried to do for everywhere else. And it’s just….We’re leaving wreckage in our wake. I got into this to save people, and now we’re running, and people are dying everywhere we go. It’s like we’re bringing it with us. I don’t know how long we’re supposed to live with that. God, what am I telling you this for?”

            “Because Steve would give you a speech and you’d forget what you really thought until reality set back in.”

            “Yeah. Has he always been like that?”

            “Yes.”

            “I’m in it. I mean—we’ve long since passed the point of no surrender. It’s not like I can just go home. He broke us out of the _Raft_. There’s no going back to normal after that, is there. This is it. Forever.”

            “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

            “I don’t want to say that about him, man. He means well.”

            “Meaning well isn’t the same as choosing the correct course of action. I’m not even saying that Steve’s doing the wrong thing. He does what he believes is right. But what was morally right, in Okha—that would have gotten us all killed. And if Steve’s dead, what happens the next time a hole opens in the sky and something comes through?”

            “I know. I just….” I look at him. Sam grimaces, and admits, “I didn’t think this would be my life. There used to be…choices. Now it’s like there’s only one way forward. And I hate that. It doesn’t feel like my life is my life.”

            “You have choices. The options are just unattractive. Stay with Steve and watch the collateral damage keep piling up, or turn yourself in and spend the rest of your life in prison. Or you just leave, but you still don’t see your family again. You stay hidden and start over. There’s no going back, though. That’s just the nature of time.”

            “If you had it to do over, what would you do?”

            “What would you do?” I return.

            Sam thinks about it, then says, “First thing I did with Steve—DC. We saved three million people. And that would have just been the first round. Three million after that, and three million after that, until it was all sheeple who wouldn’t say boo. There are millions and millions of people alive, because I made the choice to back him. So I’d do it all the same. I’d let them in. Now stop avoiding the question. You?”

            “It depends on the day.” I shudder, and say, “Have we had enough of a heart to heart yet?”

            “God yes. Let’s stop.”

            “Good talk,” I say, pushing myself up. “Oh, and I’ll probably fuck Lidiya tonight, so if you knock and I say I’m busy, use your goddamn ears.”

            From behind me, I hear Sam mutter, “Or maybe it depends on the day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that you're all gems? Thank you so much for the comments, the kudos, the bookmarks, all of it. I'm throwing gratitude confetti at you right now.


	16. Italy

_I’ve had about three hours sleep since we arrived, and that’s why it’s only my army training that gets me on my landing gear and saying, “Yessir.”_

_Lieutenant Davis is standing in my tent. He’s wearing a clean uniform and that helmet of his doesn’t have so much as a speck of dirt on it. It is like God picked him up from West Point and plopped him down right in front of me. First impressions, he’s the definition of a BTO. “Barnes, isn’t it?”_

_“Yessir.” Don’t tell me we’re moving out. Don’t say it. We just spent a month straight under constant fire from the fucking krauts in Africa, I’ve seen my friends die, I haven’t heard from home in what seems like a lifetime, we’ve been in Italy for all of five hours, so don’t you dare, don’t you dare show up to take over and tell me that we’re moving out._

_“We’re moving out in four hours.”_

_“Yessir.”_

_“Can you gather your squad, get them ready?”_

_No. No, I really can’t, because I haven’t showered or had a decent meal and you can’t tell me that there’s not another group in this godforsaken division that couldn’t handle whatever the hell is going on, not after all we’ve been through. Not when I lost fifty percent of my squad and the rest are replacements whose names I haven’t even learned yet because we just fucking landed._

_I nod. “Yessir.”_

_“Where I can find the information officer?”_

_In about a thousand pieces mixed with sand in Tunisia. I’m starting to think less West Point and more ninety day wonder, which means God help us all. “He’s dead, sir.”_

_“Ah. Well, there’s mail.”_

_My heart leaps all the way up to my throat. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”_

_He nods, like of course I’ll take care of it. “We go at 10:00.”_

_“Yessir,” I say._

_As soon as he leaves my tent, I’m shoving my feet into my boots. I’m not tired anymore. I just want to get to the goddamn mail._

_It’s been a year, and I haven’t heard from Steve._

_“Mail, huh.”_

_I drop my head a moment, then I look at him the same way I look at a guy we’ve taken prisoner. “Gary,” I say. “Do I look like I am in the goddamn mood?”_

_He takes a breath, and says, “No. You don’t.” Gary picks up the sack of mail for our company—Jesus, it’s for the whole company, that’ll take a while—and  says, “Buck—buddy, don’t get your hopes up, okay?”_

_I nod brusquely, knowing what he means. Lots of guys get plenty of mail. When we get letters, there’s a couple guys who drown in sugar reports from three different dames, or ones who get packages from their family. I don’t. I’ve been overseas a year and I’ve had all of two letters, both from my sister. Ma’s too upset about all us boys being over here to say much, and it’s not like I expected my old man to write._

_But Steve—I thought I’d hear from Steve. And I haven’t._

_It’s not like I’ve had time to think about it much. We’re too busy and most of the time it’s too awful to dwell on much, but for Christ’s sake—he hasn’t dropped me so much as a note. He didn’t say he would, except I thought he would, and I was so goddamn sick that maybe something happened to him, that maybe he died._

_Only I know he hasn’t, because in Becca’s last letter she wrote something about how I must be proud of him. I don’t know what that means._

_I take the sack, and say, “What, is this everything since 1941?”_

_“Two institutions that are known for their punctuality, Sergeant Barnes,” Gary says with a dry grin. “The US Army and the US Postal Service.”_

_I’m not the only one who’s hungry for news. The company didn’t get any mail or papers or anything the whole time we were in Africa. Everybody’s milling around, not even worrying about having to pick up and fight again after the trip to Italy without any leave, because they know there’s mail._

_I’m about three seconds from being mobbed when I raise my voice and yell, “LISTEN UP! We—are going to do this in an orderly fashion, gentlemen. Or so help me, we can pick this up when we get back here. Of course, we all know this war will be over by Christmas.”_

_There’s some groans and a couple guys calling me a comedian, but it keeps me from being overrun._

_I take out handfuls of letters, calling out names. Every time, they’re snatched out of my hand like I’m passing out gold. And every time it’s not for me, I feel something inside myself harden._

_“Robertson! Eggs, I got one for you—“ I lower my handful, and yell, “Tony! What, your wife said she’d write you every day or something?”_

_He shrugs, unapologetic, and I give him his fifth letter. Fucking sugar reports, like I said._

_“Paddy—that’s for you. Pfefferberg! Hold up, pal, looks like I got another one for you here.”_

_“Thanks Sarge.”_

_Nodding, I toss Tony his sixth letter with an eye roll, and the guys laugh and meanwhile I feel my insides go still._

_Sgt. James Barnes. 107 th. His handwriting. _

_My hand trembles for just a second, then I’m folding it in half and slipping it into my pocket and I keep going like I don’t want to throw the letters in the air like confetti and let them fight over them like dogs._

_The second I can be alone, I am. We’re leaving camp in about twenty minutes, but I’m ready, I’m always ready to move out. I can take this time for myself._

_I sit down on the ground against a crate, behind the mess that looks like it was built yesterday and smells like it should have been torn down five years ago, and pull the letter from my pocket. It’s dog eared. Looks like it’s been through a war all on its own. I run my hand over it._

_The return address is Detroit._

_What in the_ hell _is he doing in Detroit? Steve’s left Brooklyn once in his life, and that was the trip we took up north that time I borrowed Bill’s car._

_I can’t take it. I flip the envelope over, slipping my thumb inside, and tear it open. I reach inside, and pull out two sheets of paper, and another smaller envelope. I don’t bother with the other envelope, because I need to know. I have to know why he hasn’t written me. Was he sick? Did he get married and just forgot me? I don’t care, I honestly don’t care what the answer is, I just need to know that he’s all right._

_I unfold the sheets, and I read._

Dear Bucky

            First off I’m sure you’re furious with me and I’m sorry about that. Ever since you left things have been awfully strange and I didn’t know how to tell you and I wasn’t allowed to tell you either. So I didn’t say anything. I got your letters though and I know you’re mad but I’ll tell you what I can so that you’ll maybe figure out a way to forgive me for it someday. Also you probably won’t believe me but I swear it’s all true.

            I enlisted. I know, you can’t believe anyone would take me. Fifth time was the charm. Went to Camp Lehigh and everything. I knew you’d be mad so I didn’t tell you. The thing is they accepted me for a special program. Kind of like something from one of your books. Or kind of like _Dr. Frankenstein_.

            I was selected and it worked. I don’t know if you get the papers over there or have seen the news reels or anything but that’s me. In case you don’t get any of that stuff I’m sending a picture so you know it’s really me.

            I don’t look like I used to. I’m not sick like I used to be either. I think I’m taller than you now. I’m not kidding! I’m 6’2” and 240 pounds. Again I am not pulling your leg. Look at the picture so you know I haven’t gone crazy either.

            I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone about the experiment and I didn’t feel right lying to you either so I couldn’t figure out what to say. So I just didn’t. I feel pretty awful about that Buck.

            I’m a lot better at pretty much everything than I used to be and I could fight. I could honestly fight. I have fought but so far they haven’t let me go overseas. They’ve got me selling war bonds. If you saw the get up I was in to do it I think you’d laugh yourself sick so I didn’t send you a picture of that. Right now I’m touring the beautiful US of A with a team of dancing girls. I punch Hitler and people buy a lot of bonds. They’re calling me Captain America. They actually promoted me to Captain.

            It sounds so ridiculous when I write it down. You’re going to think I’m schizo. I knew you would think I was insane so I didn’t want to write this letter.

            Only I’m scared you think I’ve forgotten you and I haven’t. I’m stuck here doing the same silly thing every day while you’re doing what I should and I wish I could be there with you. They tell me that this is how I can really serve my country but when I think about you I feel like a fraud Buck and I just want to be there. You’re fighting the bad guy. You’re really fighting him. I’m just pretending to same as always.

            Anyway I don’t know what else to say about it right now. I’m trying to talk them into letting me come to Italy with the USO at least. I just want to do whatever I can.

            Hope you’re okay and that you’re not too sore at me. I’ll make it up to you any way I can.

            Your friend

            Steve

            P.S. I jumped on a fake grenade once at Camp Lehigh when all the other guys ran like little girls. The first thing I thought after I realized it was a fake was that you would have beaten the tar out of me.

            P.P.S. Seriously this is not a joke. Look at the picture.

 

_At the bottom of the page is a sketch of chorus girls in costumes that look like they’re made out of the American flag._

_I stare at the letter, unable to react. Sick, I would have understood. Married, I would have understood. But what in the hell is this? Has the cheese slid off his cracker?_

_Absolutely perplexed, I take the little envelope and open it up. I pull out the picture._

_My jaw drops, and the colour drains from my face._

_It’s a photo of a man from the waist up. He is wearing a tight white tee that shows off his massive shoulders and arms. He’s gorgeous, fair haired and square jawed. He smiles at the camera a little sheepish, like he can’t believe anyone would ever want to take a picture at him._

_It’s Steve. It is definitely, absolutely Steve. I would know his eyes, his mouth, anywhere. I’d know that smile. Only his too big head is now the right size for his body, and he’s massive. He is fucking massive, but it’s Steve._

_I try to breathe in through my nose. I try to breathe at all._

_This is a man that could be sent overseas. Steve’s size protected him. It meant that I didn’t have to worry about him being sent over here. But this man in the photo—he’s 1A if I’ve ever seen it in my life._

_“Sarge?”_

_I lift my eyes from the letter. Zero swallows, looking like he wishes he hadn’t spoken. He’s eighteen, from Des Moines, and he’s as small as you can get and still be allowed to enlist. A real zombie, but a good kid._

_He looks me over and asks, “Someone die?”_

_I look down at the letter that I’m scrunching in my grasp, and say hoarsely, “Someone’s gonna, when I get my hands on him.”_

_It’s three days before I’m able to sit down and try to write some kind of reply._

_I’ve asked every one of the replacements if they know anything about Captain America. I learn quickly that he’s considered a joke, and every time one of them makes a crack, I want to break their jaw. I hear about comic books. I hear about news reels. I hear there’s even a movie._

_And it’s Steve._

_I don’t know what to think about it. It’s unreal. I’ve always loved books about imaginary places and what the world will look like—I dragged Steve to World of Tomorrow about three times, even the night I left him. But that stuff’s not real. It’s not real like God’s not real. Over here, you learn to stop believing in fairy tales real fast._

_Only I’ve got his picture in my helmet. It’s right on top of my head, so I can take it out and look whenever I have a spare second, to try and make sure he’s real. And he is._

_We’re in this bombed out old house, and I’ve rustled up some paper and a pencil, and there’s just enough light for me to be able to write. Pfefferberg’s groaning in the corner, but we can’t move him. Not yet._

_I rub a thumb against my eyebrow. I’ve thought about what I want to say to him a million times. Nothing ever seems to be enough._

_I put the pencil to the paper, and for one second I come really close to writing ‘ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?’ I stop myself before I can, though._

_I write, ‘Dear Steve,’ and then I freeze._

_What can I say to him?_

_You didn’t have to do this? The war’s not going to be won or lost because of you? You were perfect the way you were, absolutely perfect, and I want to strangle you because you didn’t see that?_

_I’ve killed ten people that I know of and the first time I shot a man between the eyes I didn’t feel triumph, I felt sick because I thought of you and if you would see me differently because I’d killed somebody. I lay in the cold and the wet and I think of our bed back in Brooklyn and I’m so alone. I watched a boy with blond hair get his brains blown out next to me and he splattered all over me, and that night all I could think of was how glad I was that you weren’t here, that you’d never be here._

_I swallow, and I write without another thought, ‘If you want to make it up to me, you will NEVER come here. Your friend, Bucky.’_

_The letter never reaches him. It gets lost, thanks to the combined efforts of the US Army and the US Postal Service, and seventy years later, I see it in the Smithsonian._


	17. Leaving

I don’t remember Titus, but Lidiya tells me we’ve met before. Steve and Sam are both down in the house, because she says it might be best for them to stay out of sight. “I trust Titus well enough,” she says, “but his loyalties have always been more flexible than mine.”

            So I’m sitting with her at the kitchen table when the door opens, and the skinny man with missing teeth steps inside. He looks confident enough, but when he sees me he goes stone still and wheezes, “Mother of God.”

            “Titus,” Lidiya says. She gestures to the open chair. “Good to see you. Join us.”

            He glances back as Semyon comes up behind him, basically pushing him into the trailer. Titus stares at us all, then clears his throat. “Yes. Of course.” He has a big duffle bag that he sets on the table with a thud.

            “Is that everything?”

            “No,” he replies, sitting down. “No, there’s more in the truck.” He casts a skittering glance at me. “I thought you wanted his things for sentimental reasons.”

            Folding her hands, Lidiya responds, “Have I ever struck you as sentimental?”

            He has a weak chin, and the flesh on his neck wiggles when he shakes his head. “No. You haven’t.” He unzips the bag, pushing it open. “Ah, let’s see—I have the emergency repair kit, but I see he’s been upgraded. I’ve got plasma grenades, I came across this thing here—“ He pulls out the launcher for the magnetic disc grenade. “Not sure how much use that will be without ammunition, but you said whatever I could find. Ah—tactical vest.”  

            He lays that out, and I get a nice little skip in my chest. I shouldn’t. This was almost my HYDRA uniform. This black vest I would wear everywhere, bulletproof, with its straps and hooks and all its useful little pockets. I can’t help it but be happy to see it again. And I do hate myself for it.

            Titus reaches into the bag, taking out a black box. “This—this was difficult to come across.”

            He opens it, and my breath catches. It’s one of my masks. Not a half mask, but with the lenses and everything.

            I can’t pretend. “Good,” I say, and pluck it out of the box.

            Titus looks just as shocked as when he came in. Lidiya smiles slightly, and I put the mask in place. It stays on because it’s magnetized, and there’s four little metal screws in my face, two on my cheekbones, two on my jaw.

            I gaze through the lenses at Semyon. He’s sitting on the couch, legs splayed and looking as uninterested as always. At the sight of me, he smothers a grin and looks away.

            “Yes,” Titus murmurs slowly, closing the box. “I’ve got three sniper rifles in the truck. I have anti-tank weapons. I’ve got surveillance equipment. Scramblers. Anything I could get my hands on.”

            Lidiya pushes her silver hair back with a single hand. “What’s it like out there?”

            “Chaos,” he answers with a shiver. “Army everywhere. I had to pay a lot of people a lot of money to get here without the cargo being confiscated. If it was anywhere else—but Exxon, Shell, they lost billions of dollars. Not to mention Okha, but it’s not as if Moscow cares about Okha.”

            “What do the politics look like?”

            “No one’s taken responsibility. Not yet at least. Money’s on North Korea after what happened in Primorsky Krai.” He glances briefly at me and says, “God, was that him?”

            “And Primorsky Krai?” Lidiya asks. “What’s the situation there?”

            “The Koreans say it wasn’t them. That the Russians are making it up. But it’s North Korea. I’m sure they believe their lies even when they know they’re lies. It’s tense. I don’t want to be in this fucking country any longer than I have to. I have a flight out of here in about three hours, so—“ He raises his brows.

            Lidiya just returns the gesture. “So?”

            Titus sighs. “So—I paid a lot of people a lot of money to get here. With what you asked for.”

            A few seconds pass, and Lidiya says levelly, “You want money.” The disdain in her tone is clear. If he’s smart, he’ll start back pedalling.

            He’s not smart. “Lidiya. Do you know how much all of this would have gotten on the open market? You know what certain people will pay for something he owned. One of those masks? Someone paid two million American dollars for it. Some senator. This is all very, very valuable.”

            “I asked you to bring the soldier’s things. Because he requires them.”

            “Lidiya,” Titus sighs. “Come on. The old poor grandmother get-up doesn’t work with me. I’ve known you twenty five years. I know there’s money. I didn’t do this out of the goodness of my heart. I know that’s not why you’re doing it either. The old days are gone. Now it’s about survival. So…let’s be reasonable.”

            She taps her thumbs together, thinking about it. Then she sniffs and says, “Fine. You want money, then we will act like common criminals, and do this with money.”

            “Don’t be upset.”

            “I’m not upset,” Lidiya shrugs. “Semyon, get the coffee can.” He doesn’t move, and Lidiya hisses at him. “Get him the money. You’re not too old for me to hit you.” Semyon scowls, pushing himself off the couch. As he walks over to the cupboards, Lidiya shakes her head. “Children. Well, I can’t say I’m too surprised, Titus—you were always slippery.”

            With a shrug, he says, “It’s a new world. The old ways aren’t of any use.”

            Semyon drops a large coffee can in front of him, the kind with the plastic lid. Lidiya says, “There. Everything you deserve.”

            Titus opens his mouth, but Semyon’s already slipped the knife into the base of his skull, all the way up to the hilt. Titus’ eyes bulge, and he jerks, but Semyon keeps a steady grip on the top of his head, fingers threaded into his hair, and Lidiya just watches without blinking.

            After about thirty seconds of croaking, Titus slumps over the table. Semyon pulls the switchblade out, wiping it on Titus’ shoulder and folding the blade back in. As he pockets it, Lidiya says, “If you boys could empty the vehicle, then put him and the truck in the water.”

            I still have the mask on. I ask, “How many vehicles are already _in_ the water?”

            “We keep the fish fed,” Lidiya replies. She pulls the can over, opening the lid. “Does anyone want coffee?”

           

The next day, a man pulls up into the same spot where Titus had parked. I lean over to Lidiya and inquire, “You’re not going to kill this one too, are you?”

            “Semyon would be furious if I did,” Lidiya answers, arms crossed. She’s standing at the window. “It’s his father.”

            Fifteen minutes later, the four of us are sitting down at the kitchen table with an old map of the Pacific Ocean spread out. It’s held down with the salt and pepper shakers and a book.

            Iosif is a handsome Nivkh man in his forties, with a scar across his right cheek. He smiles a lot, and Semyon looks happier than usual with him around, which is to say he actually exhibits some emotion. Tapping on the map, Iosif says, “So I’ll take the three of you from here to Raykoke Island. From there, you’ll get on a fishing boat called _Elisabeta_.”

            “Is that Yeni?” Lidiya asks.

            Iosif shakes his head. “No, Yeni died last year.”

            “I didn’t know that.”

            “Got drunk, fell off the boat.” Lidiya rolls her eyes, and Iosif says, “His cousin runs it now. Kara. You remember Kara.”

            “Little Kara?”

            “Little Kara is six years older than Semyon,” Iosif replies, squeezing the back of his son’s neck and giving it a shake. “She’s a hell of a lot more reliable than Yeni was, God rest him. They won’t take them far, only about two hundred kilometres. From there, they’ll get on a trawler called _Yakutsk_ , and that’ll take them to about a hundred kilometres from the Queen Charlotte Islands—right about here, okay?” He looks to my eyes for confirmation, and I nod. “There’s going to be a boat that’ll pick you up from there. _The Cornwall._ That’s just a fishing boat. Not commercial or anything. But he’s reliable. He’ll take you the rest of the way to the islands.” Iosif pulls out a sheet of paper, written on top to bottom in meticulous, tiny handwriting, of all the instructions I’ll need. I’ll have it memorized after about ten minutes. “From there, my friend, you’ll be on your own.”

            “That’s more than enough,” I say. A memory niggles at me, and I sigh a little.

            “What?” Lidiya asks.

            “Steve wanted us in Northern Canada. These islands, they’re—closer to Vancouver than I would have liked. Not to mention Alaska.”

            Iosif spreads his hands. They’re worn and rough, the hands of a man who works on the sea. “This is what I could do in the time frame you gave me.”

            “Understood.” Considering the map, I say, “We’ll make it work. Thank you.”

            “Are you going to ask for money now?” Lidiya asks.

            Iosif looks at her like she’s insane. “Why would I do that?”

            “The man who brought the weapons, he asked for money.”

            Iosif starts to cackle, and looks between Lidiya and Semyon. “And which one of you took care of him?” Lidiya nods to Semyon, and Iosif takes him by the back of the shoulder, shaking him again. “She is a _terrible_ influence on you.” Semyon just smiles with quiet pride.

            I look at them, and I suddenly remember the last time I saw my father with a sharp little crack. It was the morning before I shipped out. I was the first of the boys to actually be sent overseas. He put his hand on my shoulder like Iosif is with Semyon, and he told me how proud he was of me.

            My father has been dead for sixty years.

            “Soldier?” Lidiya murmurs.

            I raise my head. The room has gone silent. I wonder what I’ve done. Instead of addressing it, I just put the paper down and say, “So you’ll be here at 08:00 tomorrow?”

           

“The Queen Charlottes,” Steve echoes.

            “This is an old map,” I say. “It’s called Haida Gwaii.” I lift my hands. “I have no idea why I know that. I don’t think I’ve been there.”

            We’re sitting on the floor in the house so that we can look at the map. I’ve drawn out our route. It should take us about a week to make the crossing. I’m worried about how Sam’s going to take it. He was bad enough crossing the Sea of Japan; I’m wondering how he’ll handle the Pacific. It’s not that I’m worried about his welfare, it’s that I’m worried he’ll give us away. At least he’s healed up after the two weeks here. Not that I’m worried about him. Because I’m not.

            “Do I want to know what all these boats are doing?” Sam asks.

            Leaning down to look at the islands on the map, I reply, “They’re smuggling heroin. We’re piggybacking.”             After a moment’s silence, I glance upwards. Steve looks stony and Sam is giving me a _you had to open your mouth now?_ expression. “Oh. The question was if you wanted to know. The answer is no, I guess.”

            “I don’t—“ Steve sighs. “I realize our options are pretty limited, but I’m not thrilled about our mode of transport. There, I’ve said what you both expect, yes I’m a boy scout, okay, let’s move on.”

            “Please,” I mutter, “you weren’t thrilled about that French pimp who got us into Paris, but you didn’t let that stop us in ’44.”

            Sam laughs, “Now this is a story I haven’t heard.”

            With a smile, Steve says, “And you won’t.” He gives me a look—affectionate, exasperated. I turn my attention back to the map. “I’m going to ask, even if I don’t want to know the answer. How are we paying for this?”

            I snort. “Lidiya Nyengun wants it to happen. So it’s happening.”

            “Man, what did she _do_ back in the day?” Sam asked.

            “Everything,” I reply honestly. “She hasn’t been active since HYDRA fell, but people have long memories. They know who to fear.” I think of something, and raise my head. “Would you like to see a picture?”

            They both look taken aback. I’m not sure why. “Of what?” Sam says suspiciously.

            “Of me and Lidiya.”

            They look at each other, and Steve says, “Sure, Buck.” But in this kind of careful voice. I’m not sure why.

            I get up and go to the wall. Tapping against it three times, a door pops open. There are buttons for me to punch in my security code. I do, and the wall opens up. It’s filled with binders. Not quite sure how I know, I reach for the bottom shelf, and pull out the black binder that’s third from the left. I’ve chosen correctly, because it has a big red star on the front.

            I sit down again, leaning against the examination table, and open the binder into my lap. The first page is me, with the third iteration of my arm. There’s a couple of pictures of me, all obviously unconscious, with plenty of bruising around where the arm was attached.

            I flip through the pages of pictures of operations that were done on me, documents, kill confirmations, until I come to the photo I’m looking for. When I study at it, I feel fondness. It’s Lidiya and I in1985, in Argentina. I’m holding my rifle, my mask on. She is in a tight HYDRA uniform, her black hair pinned mercilessly back. Her high cheekbones and wide lips, almond shaped dark eyes. Her hands are wrapped possessively around an AK-74. Surgeon, spy, assassin. She looks like a queen.

            Almost tenderly, I pass the photo to Sam across the map. “That’s us.”

            He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s one bad ass woman.” The side of my mouth turns up a little.

            I realize that Steve’s staring at the binder in my lap. “What else have you got in there?” he asks softly.

            I glance down at it. On the same page is a Polaroid that was taken of a Nigerian diplomat I shot in the head. Lifting my knees so that it’s angled away from his sight, I say, “Nothing special.” I hold my hand out to take the photo back from Sam. I make like I’m putting it away, but I palm it, slipping it seamlessly into my pocket as I get up to put away the binder.

            “So?” Sam says. “How worried are we about the guy who shot me?”

            Steve snaps back to his normal self, or at least his soldier self, and says, “Once we get back to North America, it’ll be easier for us to reach out to friendly parties.”

            “Not online,” I say.

            “Buck, I’ve only been using the internet for four years. Trust me, I can manage to make contact the old fashioned way.”

            Closing the door tight, making sure it’s locked, I state, “MODOK will be looking for us. Everywhere. Getting near the States—it’s reckless. I’m not sure if he’ll expect that or if he’ll overestimate us.”

            “Kauai,” Sam says, and we both look at him. “I’m just putting it out there. We live out the rest of our natural lives in a tropical paradise. Or in your case, unnatural.”

            With a small smile, Steve says, “Think we’ll risk it in Canada, buddy.”

            “We’ll need to be careful once we reach Canada,” I say. “There’ll be plenty more opportunities for people to recognize us. A lot more people.”

            “Yeah, but look at this map,” Steve says. “I’m not seeing a ton of place names. Looks like mostly mountains.”

            “I’ve been to Vancouver,” says Sam, leaning over the map. He taps the interior of the westernmost province. “Yeah, once you start to go north of there, not a lot of towns. Sure as hell no other cities until you get to Alaska.”

            “We’ll get to the islands,” Steve says firmly, “then figure out our next move from there. Definitely away from civilians. Agreed?”

            When he uses that voice, it means the decision’s already been made. We both nod.

            I pick up the map, folding it together, and announce, “Semyon’s making dinner. You’re welcome to come eat with us.” Usually they eat down in the house, I figure because of mutual disdain. It’s our last night, though, and Lidiya’s invited them.

            It isn’t until I get up that I notice the strange look on Steve’s face. I wait, and after a second, he shakes his head. “No thanks.”

            “He’s a good cook.”

            Steve purses his lips, and gazes up at me. “It’s not the kid I don’t like. Well, to be honest, I don’t trust him either. I don’t want to be around _her_.”

            I frown. “We can trust Lidiya.”

            He sighs and gives me those earnest blue eyes. “Buck—it’s not a matter of trust. It’s that she tortured you. She’s HYDRA, and whether you see it that way or not, she tortured you. She was one of your doctors, and honestly—it took about everything I had not to throw her in the ocean the one time I had to be alone with her. So—you can pass on our regards, but we’ll be fine down here with our MREs.”

            I just roll my eyes, and head towards the stairs. “Suit yourself. Boat leaves tomorrow at 08:00.”

           

“I can hear you thinking,” Lidiya murmurs against my shoulder.

            We are laying in her bed. She is curled around me. The sex was incredible. I’ve never been with another woman her age. She knows what the hell she’s doing. The first woman I was ever with was older too. I can remember that now, and so much more.

            I’m not sure what to say to her. Fucking Steve. I wish he knew how to keep his mouth shut sometimes. Like it isn’t hard enough for me to function.

            “Did you ever feel bad?” I ask abruptly.

            She lifts her head a few inches. “About what?”

            “About what you did to me.”

            I look at her in the dark, and she looks at me. After a moment, she shakes her head. “No. It was war. We did what we had to. You were our weapon. You were a man, but you were the weapon first. If I knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have left the project. I just would have done all I could to make you even more vicious than you already were.”

            At least she’s honest. She doesn’t lie to me, and her feelings don’t get hurt.

            “Do you feel bad?” she asks. “About the things we made you do?”

            I shrug. “If I ever started to feel bad about the things I did for HYDRA, I’d have to kill myself. You all programmed me for survival so deep that I just don’t think about it. Or feel it.”

            “For the best,” Lidiya says, and lays back down on my shoulder. I hold her close and shut my eyes.

 

The rowboat is stocked with our cargo, and Sam and Steve have already waded into the frigid sea to climb in. I heard Steve offer to carry Sam. Didn’t hear the response.

            Lidiya and Semyon stand side by side on the beach, both of them in their deceptively ratty clothing, both of them with their hair down, flapping in the wind. The sun’s not even up yet, but there’s a faint lightening of the night.

            After a moment’s consideration, I hold my hands out to Lidiya first. She takes them with a slight smile, stepping closer to me.

            “Soldier,” she murmurs.

            I look her over, and say, “Goodbye for now.”

            “I think for always.”

            “You can’t be sure of that.”

            “No. I don’t suppose I can.”

            I tilt her face up towards mine, and kiss her goodbye. It’s like all goodbye kisses. It’s sad.

            And when she smiles at me, she looks like she’s twenty three again.

            Letting her go, I take Semyon by the arm. “Come over here.”

            I walk him away from Lidiya, and he goes pliantly. I take him down the beach until we’re out of earshot, then I turn him around and lean down to look in his blank eyes.

            “Listen,” I say. “Odds are you’re already too broken, and you’re not going to pay attention to what I’m going to tell you. But on the off chance that there’s still some piece of you that’s not warped beyond all recognition, I want you to listen to me: run away.” He blinks, and I shake my head at him. “Get as far and fast from this place as possible, because I might be used to it, and she might be used to it, but kid, you could do whatever the hell you wanted. Even if it’s something like this. You—could rule the fucking world if you wanted.” I tilt my head, and add, “That, and sweetheart—it’s a crime that a lay as good as you is stuck in _Nekrasovka_ , of all fucking places.”

            He breaks into a wide grin. Then he reaches up, wrapping his thin arms around my neck, and I pick him off the ground to embrace him.

            Once I set him down, Semyon looks up at me and says in English, “Until we meet again.”

“Until we meet again,” I agree.

I turn and walk back, into the sea. I toss my bag in the boat, then climb inside.

            Steve’s the one behind the oars. Iosif is giving him a questioning look, but then Steve starts to row, and Iosif raises his brows. He nods at me appreciatively. Steve definitely has the arms for rowing.

            I look back to the beach as we leave. Lidiya is walking to Semyon. She wraps an arm through his, and lifts a hand to wave. I wave back. Semyon does nothing, only watching us go.

            I turn my face to the water.

            “What was that about?” Steve asks in curiosity, glancing backwards as he rows.

            Shrugging, I say, “I could be his grandfather.”

            “No,” Sam says, stricken. Steve looks at him, brows furrowed, and I don’t look at Sam. “No—JB, come on, man. C’mon. You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding.”

            He sounds so desperate.

            I start to laugh. Sam’s still pleading, “Please tell me you’re joking. JB. You are joking.”

            I clap my hands together, bending over with the force of my laughter. It rolls up through me, from the bottom of my stomach. It’s an incredible, bizarre sensation. “What’s so funny?” Steve asks.

            “JB! Dude—this isn’t funny.”

            “There’s no way,” I tell Sam. “There’s literally no way I could be. I’m just kidding.”

            He shakes his head at me. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, you know that?”

            I break up all over again, the hardest I’ve laughed in seventy years. Steve says, “What?”

            I look at him, and he smiles at me, starting to laugh too because I am, and I laugh long and loud to the sea.

 

 

_It’s…been months._

_I know it’s been months, because of his coat._

_I’m not so far gone, they haven’t hurt me so bad that my brain hasn’t turned to oatmeal. God, oatmeal. Like my ma makes it. I miss my ma. I can’t remember what her face looks like, but I know I miss her._

_The coat. Right._

_I know that they’ve had me captive for months because even though I can’t remember the days, I can remember what he looks like. When he first brought me here, he had a winter coat on._

_Then he had no coat, just his uniform with the sleeves rolled up._

_Now his winter coat is back._

_What does that mean? September? October? Christ, is it November? Wonder what’s going on with the war. I can’t even remember when they took me in the first place._

_I don’t worry about it too much, though. All I have to do, is remember one thing. Well—two things._

_The man with the bald head and goatee leans forward and says, “Name.”_

_Head lolling, I have to search for a moment to find the strength to lift it. I look at his ugly, rat like face, and I grin._ The _grin._

_“My name—you Russky HYDRA cocksucker—is Bucky Barnes.”_

_Frowning, he looks at me with something that almost seems like pity. And maybe even admiration. I’ll admit, for a one armed guy who’s been tortured for months, I’m pretty goddamn admirable._

_Softly, he says, “He’s not coming for you.”_

_Still smiling, I bend my head forward, and say, “Yeah. He is. Now go ahead and shock me again, you son of a bitch.”_

_They do._

END PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay folks--end of Part One: Sakhalin.  
> A few people have brought up Steve's characterization, and wondering why he's acting kind of out of character (eg. a little passive, taking a backseat while Bucky takes the initiative), so I wrote a ridiculously long comment about why I've written him as such--I think it's on the last chapter. My apologies to the poor soul who prompted the thing (and who had so many great observations about the story, which I loved)--my response ended up being about a page long. I've just wanted to explain why Steve's acting the way he is, and it seemed like a good opportunity.  
> As always, comments and kudos are deeply appreciated, and sometimes end up being replied to with way too much thought late at night.  
> Thank you so much for sticking with me this far. Part Two: MODOK begins tomorrow.


	18. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks: welcome to Part Two.  
> Just want to make sure that we're all on the same page here. Am I writing a universe where Bucky Barnes was (perhaps still is) in love with Steve Rogers? Absolutely. But I'm definitely not writing a world where there are any easy fixes, and I'm definitely not writing a Bucky Barnes who's miraculously cured of seventy years worth of indoctrination by the power of friendship, sex, or love. As always, not a knock against those who write or read those stories--I devour those stories because I want these fools to be happy. It's just not the story that I'm writing.  
> Not that anyone seems to have the wrong impression so far--you've gotten through about 60000 words now, so I feel like you know what you're getting--but in Part Two, we see Bucky doing some truly terrible things, flashback and see that Steve wasn't always the perfectly virtuous person that the history books say, and enough innocent people are imperiled that it makes Okha look like a picnic. I can't help but worry that people will be less than thrilled by the choices the characters make, but then again, it's the internet, so I should probably develop thicker skin.  
> So I hope we're all good, folks. Are we all ready?  
> Okay. Let's go back to 1943.

PART TWO: MODOK

_At first I don’t feel it._

_Then my veins start burning._

_Don’t like this. I don’t like this._

_I’m on the table. I’m still on the table. It’s dark but they’re flashing lights in my eyes or is that coming from inside me and I don’t know, I don’t know, I’m scared—_

_It’s burning. Jesus Mary mother of God they are trying to burn me from the inside out—_

_I’m supposed to be saying something. My name. My serial number. Oh God. Oh God._

_The pain spikes and I howl. I arch off the table as much as I can which is nothing because I’m strapped down from my shoulders to my ankles and I can’t—I can’t I can’t I can’t—_

_Christ, is Zola trying to tell me to calm down? What planet is he on? What fucking planet is that freak even on?_

_FIRE._

_I’m screaming so hard I can’t even hear the sound of it in my ears. My body is coming apart. I am breaking apart. There’s no me. There’s no me. There’s no me._

_There’s only pain._

_It comes in again and I screech. I can’t feel my limbs, all I feel is fire. I’m nothing but fire. They’re burning me. Why are they burning me?_

_It’s in every piece. There’s nothing left that’s me. It’s fire and pain and there’s no me there’s just this and this will be all I know forever._

_When they stop, I think a million years have passed. I feel my breath pulling in shallowly over my tongue and down my throat. It pushes back out again. I can do nothing to control it. I’m staring at a wall. There’s something on the wall, but I’ve forgotten the word for it. It’s a paper. The paper has lines. What do you call it when a paper has lines on it?_

_My mouth falls open, and I say one thing. I say his name._

_Someone says, “What?”_

_Zola says, “I think he means Captain Rogers.”_

_I don’t know who Captain Rogers is. All I know is that I want Steve._

_I’m alone. I think._

_They haven’t left me alone much over the last few days. Or weeks. Months? There’s always faces hovering over mine. There’s needles. Things hurt. They write that down. They ask questions._

_I tell them my name, rank, and serial number._

_That’s what I am. That’s all I have left._

_They killed my men. My squad. They were my responsibility, and they killed every single one of them. Lined us up, looked at each of our dog tags, grabbed me by the arms and pulled me forward. I don’t know why they picked me. I’m no one special. I’m no one at all. They made me watch as they killed my boys._

_Then here. Then Zola. Then hurting all the time._

_Name, rank, serial number. I open my mouth and I make myself say it. It doesn’t sound like my voice. I think I’ve been unmade._

_What am I now?_

_Name. Rank. Serial number._

_My eyes ache. I can’t figure out why at first. Then I get it. I’m not blinking. Why am I not blinking? I tell my body to do it, so it does._

_I lay here. I know there’s no point in moving. I’ve tried fighting. They strapped me down. They tortured me. They’ve experimented on me._

_I let my boys die. It’s okay if I die here. It’s okay._

_Name. Rank. Serial number._

_Zola comes in. He’s hurrying. I know it’s him without seeing his face because of the way he murmurs to himself._

_I don’t even care that he’s here. What else could he do to me? What else could he take that I have to give?_

_Name, rank, serial number._

_He’s speaking to me. I’m barely here. I’m in our apartment. I’m lying in bed with Steve. He’s rolled over and his arm is across me. That’s what I’ll think of. When they kill me, I’ll think of those nights, when I pretended that he loved me back._

_Or I’ll remember the time I kissed him._

_He says something about a weapon. A fist or something. I don’t know. I don’t care. He leaves. I don’t care about that either._

_Name, rank, serial number._

_I’m no one. I’m just a soldier. I’m nobody special. I didn’t figure I’d die over here, but I think I’m ready. I think I’m ready to die._

_Name. Rank. Serial number._

_A voice says, “Bucky—oh my God.”_

_I don’t care. I’m ready. They can take me. They’re definitely going to kill me. They’re taking off the straps. They’re gonna take me somewhere and shoot me, now that they’ve gotten what they want._

_A face leans over mine. He looks like a German. Blue eyed. Fair skin. But I know that voice. And I know those eyes. “It’s me,” he says, his voice delicate. “It’s Steve.”_

_I smile, just at the sound of the name. “Steve,” I murmur._

_“Come on.”_

_He’s lifting me up, and I say his name again, and—wait. Wait, is it really—it can’t be him. He’s big. My Steve isn’t big._

_I’m on my feet for the first time in days, shaking like a hangover, and he’s holding me up. He’s looking at me, looking like he’s near heartbroken. “I thought you were dead.”_

_I’m so dazed, I reply, “I thought you were smaller.”_

_He puts an arm around me, helping me walk, and it starts to sink in. It’s Steve. It’s actually, actually Steve. It’s like wanting him here made it so._

_I still don’t understand what happened to him, so I ask, “What happened to you?”_

_“I joined the army,” he replies, and then I know it’s him for sure, the goddamn punk, because his mouth has always been too big for his body, and nothing will ever change that._

_I start to get my bearings as we head down the halls. I’m barely on my feet, but he’s let me go. I wish he wouldn’t, because I’m not walking so well. He’s telling me about the experiment, about some guy named Erskine, and I could act like I care, but I can’t focus on the right questions. All I can ask is, “Did it hurt?” because I’m thinking of everything they did to me. I don’t know why they hurt me like that, but I want to be sick at the thought of someone hurting Steve._

_“A little,” he says, looking around corners. Like he’s a soldier. Like he’s actually a soldier._

_“Is it permanent?”_

_“So far,” he says cheerfully. How can anyone be cheerful in this place where all they do is hurt?_

_We head upstairs, him helping me, because things are blowing up around us. Steve stops, because on the other side of the factory is Schmidt and Zola. He just leaves me hanging on a railing and steps out onto a walkway to confront Schmidt._

_I’d try to help, but—all I can do is stare at Zola. He did this to me. He hurt me. He’s watching me back, uninterested in what’s happening on the walkway._

_They’re fighting. Jesus, when did Steve learn to fight like that?_

_The walkway retracts, and Steve’s back here with me. Then Schmidt pulls off his own goddamn face, revealing a red abomination underneath._

_Mouth open, I say to Steve, “You—don’t have one of those, do you?”_

_He looks about as taken aback as I am, so I’ll take that as a no. Good. Him being the size of a fucking tank is weird enough._

_A minute later, and he’s helping me up more stairs. The building is exploding, and I see what he wants us to do, but it’s insane. He wants to walk across a truss that’s dozens of feet above fire as the entire place tries to come down around our heads._

_I can do it. I know that I can do it. I spent five years working in the Brooklyn Navy Shipyard. Walking across a steel girder doesn’t exactly frighten me._

_Walking across it in flames—okay, maybe that scares me a little._

_Without hesitating, Steve orders, “Let’s go—one at a time—“ And then he’s helping me over the railing. I could barely walk ten minutes ago, and now he thinks I can do this._

_I look at him, and I see that he absolutely believes I can do this. Steve believes in his heart that I’m capable of this, and so it must be true._

_I turn and walk through fire for Steve Rogers._

_The truss is wobbly, and the heat coming off the ground is immense. Not like anything I ever experienced at the navy yard. I keep walking forward, one foot over the other._

_It begins to give way when I’m half across. I pause, for just a second, arms out to get my balance. Looking to the other side, I see the rivets start to go. I’ve worked around metal enough, I know this thing’s about to plummet._

_Fuck it._

_I run the rest of the way, jumping off it and snatching onto the railing as the truss drops below me. Sucking in a deep breath, I climb my way onto the landing._

_Oh God. Steve’s trapped on the other side, and there’s no way out._

_I panic. I don’t know what to do. Frantic, I yell, “There’s gotta be a rope or something!”_

_He shakes his head, waving me off. “Just go! Get out of here!”_

_Like that, I’m more myself than I’ve ever been. Grabbing the railing, I scream, “NO! Not without you!”_

_He stares at me. He sees I mean it, that I’ll die here with him. Of course I would._

_Steve looks around, then bends back one of the bars on the railing. Holy shit, he can bend metal? What the hell else did they do to him?_

_He takes a few steps back, looking at me. I can’t believe he’s about to do this._

_No. I can. I believe Steve Rogers can do anything._

_He takes a running leap as the building explodes beneath us, and I don’t move, not for a second. Not while he flies through the air like a goddamn super hero as the flames erupt below us. Not until he smashes into me with all his weight, throwing both of us to the ground._

_He knocks the breath out of me, but he’s up in a second, saying gladly, “Hey, so that worked.” He grabs my hand, yanking me to my feet, and runs the both of us outside._

_We’re on the ground, about fifty feet from the burning building, when I say, “Where’s—the rest of the team? The rescue—there’s wounded, we need to—“_

_Steve rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. He’s wearing a brown leather coat, with goggles on top of his helmet, and he has a shield. He’s got a fucking shield with the American flag on it. “Uh…I’m the only one.”_

_“What do you mean, you’re the only one?”_

_“I mean—nobody was coming. And I knew you were here. So I came.” He thumbs back over his shoulder. “I released all the prisoners, and then things started to blow up, and then I came and got you.” He gives a small salute. “Captain America, at your service.”_

_“You…came because I was here.”_

_“I wasn’t gonna leave you—“_

_I punch him so hard in the eye that it hurts my fist, and he staggers back a step, but no more, because the man is solid as hell._

_“Ow,” Steve yelps, a hand going to his eye._

_“You stupid son of a bitch!” I yell. “You fucking moron! What part of that letter didn’t you understand? What part was unclear to you?”_

_“What letter?!”_

_“The letter I sent you telling you to never come to Italy, you idiot!”_

_“I didn’t get a letter!” he protests._

_I’m shaking my head so hard. “You don’t ever do this again. You don’t—“ I point a finger at him, trying to breathe. “You don’t ever—not for me. You don’t risk yourself for me, don’t you ever—“_

_I have to bend over because I think I’m about to cry. I’m unsteady, all the adrenaline and the drugs that must still be pumping through me. I don’t know if I’m going to sob or throw up._

_When Steve speaks, his voice is low and horrified. “Jesus, Buck—what did they do to you in there—“_

_Straightening, I say, “You don’t ever ask me that. It’s none of your goddamn business. Captain America. This isn’t a game! You could have died, Steve! You don’t ever come for me again, you hear me? Not ever again!”_

_I get about three steps away from him when he says, “I’ll always come for you, Buck.”_

_It stops me dead in my tracks. Because I know it’s true. I put the heels of my palms to my forehead, trying to make the pain stop._

_Then he’s hugging me._

_He smells the same. Oh God. His body is different, but he smells the way he’s smelled since we were kids and this time I do sob. Just once. It’s him and I never thought I’d see him again._

_I push him away, wiping off my face and this time I don’t look back. “We need to move._ Captain _.”_

_When we get back to base, I lead everyone in a cheer for Captain America. Steve can tell that it’s sarcastic and I am livid, but no one else can. They just cheer, and he gives a modest little smile._

_He never asks me again about what they did to me there. He never asks why I was kept alone, and he won’t let anyone else ask either._

_Eventually I’ll learn to hate him for that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another thanks to everyone who's read this far. I don't know what happened, but this story had 90 hits yesterday. My last story, on a good day, was seeing 25, so it's weird and gratifying and overwhelming that so many of you are interested in Burn the World. Maybe that's also why I'm worried about people rioting when it doesn't take the standard course of most stories.  
> But for now, you're here. And I am very, very glad.


	19. Close Quarters

We spend a lot of our days playing poker, and Steve and Sam tell stories but no one asks me to contribute unless Steve wants me to confirm that some ridiculous thing he did in the war was true. About half the time I can back him, and the rest of the time I have to say, “I can’t remember.”

            Sam’s done a lot better on the boat than I expected. He’s about the only soldier I ever knew whose happier below deck than above. “I just don’t like seeing all that water,” he shudders when I comment on it.

            He’s got all kinds of stories about Afghanistan. They’re stories that I guess Steve hasn’t heard before either. I get the impression that he and Sam haven’t talked about it much. But being stuck in the same space with two other people for days on end, and you start talking about anything that comes into your head.

            Or at least they do. I mostly keep my mouth shut, collecting data.

            On the fourth day, I don’t sleep well. I still feel tired when I wake, and I get confused. When Sam mentions Afghanistan, I say, “Did you fight with the mujahideen?”

            He stares at me a moment, Steve watching me in concern, then Sam says, “Yeah. Like the both of you, I just look _really_ good for my age.”

            I give my head a shake, trying to clear the cobwebs as Steve asks, “You okay, Buck?”

            “Uh huh,” I reply. “You going to deal or what?”

            We start with stud poker, but a few days in we’re playing draw because Sam’s a shark, Steve’s lucky, and no one can tell when I’m bluffing. We play for screws and nuts and bolts that we found in a drawer. Screws are five dollars, nuts are ten, and bolts are twenty.

            By our second last day across the Pacific, I’m hypothetically up five thousand dollars.

           

“You have an unfair advantage, JB,” Sam grumbles after I trounce him again. Steve was smart and tapped out almost from the start. Our games are fast, sometimes lasting less than a minute, and we don’t have a cap, though no one’s been stupid enough to go all in yet.

            “What’s that?” I reply, writing down my winnings.

            “HYDRA shocked you so many times your face doesn’t work.”

            I see Steve start to go red with anger, but I grin. “Well—someone once told me you work with what you’ve got.” That settles Steve down a bit as Sam snorts. “You gonna deal this time, Rogers? Sam thinks he gets a better hand when he does, but it doesn’t seem to have a basis in reality.”

            “You know,” Sam says as Steve collects the cards, “you and I haven’t had a real fight since you got the new arm. What do you think? My wings against your arm?”

            “Pigeon,” I practically purr, “if you want to be hurt, we should pick a safe word first.”

            Steve coughs, and Sam shakes his head. “Safe word is buzz cut, caveman.”

            I have to bite into my lip. It’s been easier to smile the past few days. Something about playing this game over and over, listening to their stories. Smiling is becoming a thing that my face does without me having to think about it first.

            That and neither of them are happy about their hair.

            They’ve both shaved their heads. Sam has shaved off his goatee, and Steve hasn’t shaved since we left Sakhalin, and I’m not sure which is more unhappy about it. Sam definitely complains more, but Steve keeps touching his face and frowning like there’s an unwanted animal attached to his jaw.

            Sam almost pitched a fit when I said I wasn’t going to do anything about my hair. Went up one side of me and down the other, giving almost an entire speech about what his goatee meant to him.

            “What’s your grand disguise, huh?” he asked, finally running out of breath. “I look like a damned naked mole rat, and you look like the same crazed Russian sleeper agent that you always have been. So what have you got?” Steve just watched all this from his cot. He knows better than to get between the two of us. He realizes that we don’t actually hate each other, we just fake it really well.

            I took a hair tie out of my pocket that I’d stolen from Lidiya, and pulled the top half of my hair back in a short ponytail. I cracked my neck, then gave him _the_ grin. “Hey, JB Barnes,” I said, letting Brooklyn flood into my voice. I was shaking his hand before he knew it. “Howya doing’, pal? Pleasure to meet ya.”

            Sam watched me with stunned eyes, and I let him go, all emotion draining from my face. I took out the hair tie, running my hands through my hair a few times, then I raised a brow at him.

            Sam just shuddered, turning away. “Spooky.”

            Steve looked shaken, so I shot the elastic at him. He caught it out of the air, mouth turning up into a smile.

            I’m watching him deal now. I haven’t seen him without his hair since we were nine and we got lice. His ma was really upset. She worked so hard to keep him neat and clean and safe, always worried about something getting him sick, and then I gave him lice. It was definitely me. I got it from Peter Grady, and I gave it to Steve. It was one of the few times Mrs. Rogers ever got mad at me. She usually spoke with a soft Irish brogue, but that time it got so thick that I could hardly understand a word coming out of her mouth.

            Steve looks good. Of course, he could wear a garbage bag and look good. The shaved head makes him seem tougher, and the stubble on his face definitely helps too. I try not to think about it too much.

            “All right,” Steve says, “we’re getting to the end here, gentleman. The _Yakutsk_ World Poker Championship is coming to a close. In the lead is James Buchanan Barnes with an impressive six game winning streak and five thousand in the bank. Second place is Sam ‘The Falcon’ Wilson, coming in hot with forty five hundred of his own. And in dead last is yours truly, Steve Rogers, with a pathetic three thousand, after suffering a truly devastating loss to the Falcon yesterday that will never be forgotten on the _Yakutsk_.”

            “I’m in it to win it, boss,” Sam says, and picks up his cards.

            “May the best man win,” Steve says with absolute seriousness.

            I swipe my cards up with my flesh hand, and look at them without reaction.

            Huh.

            There are times when I can’t remember the day I was born. But somehow, and this doesn’t surprise me, in Bucky Barnes’ memory is the knowledge that the chances of getting a royal flush is 1 in 650 000.

            I’ve managed to be dealt the best possible hand in the game. The answer isn’t if I’ll win, it’s how much I can take them for.

            I glance between them. Sam has that little furrow between his brows that he gets when he’s been dealt a garbage hand. The left side of Steve’s mouth has lifted slightly. He has something good, it’s just not possible that it’s quite as good as mine.

            I’m up first. I toss two bolts onto the floor. “Starting with forty.”

            Sam’s gotten rid of the furrow between his brows. “Call,” he says, tossing in two bolts of his own.

            Steve is smiling faintly. “I’ll see your forty, and I’ll raise you—forty more.”

            With a nod, I say, “I will see your eighty, and I’ll raise you another eighty.” Steve’s grin goes crooked. I don’t give anything away.

            Sam looks a little ill. He hates losing even more than I do. “Hundred and sixty,” he says after some thought. “Sure.”

            “Two hundred,” Steve continues, putting down five bolts.

            “I’ll see that,” I say. “Raise you another two hundred.” I put down ten bolts.

            Sam blows a breath up his face, and drops his card. “Fold.”

            Steve looks at me. I gaze back, unblinking. His eyes crinkle a little, and he says, “You’ve got nothing.” He reaches down and pushes everything into the middle. “All in.”

            I’m about to push in everything I have, but I don’t.

            Sighing through my nose, I drop my cards to the ground. “Yeah, Stevie, you’re a real hero.”

            He’s chuckling, pulling in all his winnings. He looks just like when we were kids. He was always terrible at card games. I don’t think he ever won a single one until we started playing together.

            Sam says, “Hold up,” and reaches for my cards.

            I don’t even realize what I’ve done until he’s almost on his back. My metal hand has his wrist in its grip and I’m cutting off his air with my flesh hand. A growl’s rising from my throat like an animal.

            I freeze, the both of us staring at each other as he hits the ground. He’s got huge brown eyes, and they remind me of this little boy I killed in Sierra Leone only I can’t remember his name or the year.

            Even as Steve’s yelping, “Buck—“ I’m letting Sam go, scrambling away from him.

            Sam starts to cough, turning on his side and holding his throat.

            When Steve touches me, I jerk away from him. Without a word, I push myself up and run out of the compartment, deep into the ship.

 

Steve manages to find me an hour later. I’ve wedged myself between cartons of heroin, making myself as small as possible.

            I was completely out of control. I’ve tried so hard to be better. Sam didn’t do anything wrong, he just reached for my cards—which is fucking rude, but that’s not the point—and I could have killed him. He’s not enhanced like I am. He can’t compete against my strength or speed or the fact that I’m just fucking broken.

            Steve crouches outside the cartons, and says, “Hey buddy.”

            “Don’t do that,” I mumble.

            “Don’t want me to be nice right now?”

            “Don’t talk to me like I’m some wounded baby bird or some PTSD nutjob. Don’t be nice. There’s no reason to be nice. Nice isn’t going to change anything.”

            “I don’t think that’s true.”

            “It is.”

            “What do you want me to do?”

            Burying my face in my knees, I murmur, “I really just want you to fuck off.”

            “Okay, pal,” he says easily, and I hear him walk away.

            Sam comes along about ten minutes later.

            “What part of ‘I want to be alone’ is difficult for the two of you to comprehend?”

            Sam sits down against one of the cartons, his legs spread out. “The act is cute, Garbo.” I lift my head. “Yeah, I know who Greta Garbo is. I vant to be left alone. My nanna was nuts for her.” I put my head back down on my knees. “I just wanted to tell you—you’re an asshole.”

            That comforts me. “Thanks.”

            “And I’m fine, by the way.”

            After a second, I mumble, “Okay.”

            “JB?”

            “What?”

            “Do you seriously never dream?”

            “No. Not since they remade me. And I know—good thing I don’t or I’d kill myself.” I wrap my arms tighter around my shins. “I’m not going to apologize to you. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

            “I know you can’t. I spent a lot of years working with people who’ve been to war. Come back with all the problems a person could have. But you—are a special case. One I’m not qualified to deal with. So I won’t. I’ll just tell you when you’re being an idiot. Okay?”

            “Sure.”

            “So—you’re being an idiot. I’m not mad at you, because I know sometimes you can’t help yourself. I’m not going to say I like it, because God knows I don’t. But you don’t need to be over here beating yourself up over it.” He tilts his head back towards me. “You listening?”

            I grunt. After a moment, I ask haltingly, “What if…I hurt one of you?”

            “Well, you’re not going to hurt Steve, and I can take care of myself.”

            “Do you really believe that?”

            “I believe the first part. The second part—if it ever comes to it, I guess we’ll see. I like my odds, though, because I’ve got an advantage on you. I’m sane.”

            I bump my forehead against my knees a few times. “Sorry,” I say under my breath.

            “Holy shit. Stop the presses. Call out the marines. JB _apologizes_.” Sam raises his voice. “Did you hear that, world? Was that captured for posterity?”

            “You’re such a dick.”

            “Coming from you, I’m sure that’s a compliment.” He pushes himself back up, and I sit up at least. Sam sticks his hands in his pockets, and shrugs. “Should have known better than to go for your cards. Sorry, man.”

            “How’d you know?” I ask quietly.

            “You called him Stevie,” Sam says, and I blink. I didn’t realize I’d done that. “It was stupid for me to forget.”

            “Forget what?”

            Sam keeps his shoulders up, and I don’t understand why his face is kind after what I did. “That you’re Bucky Barnes, and the Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes loves Steve Rogers, and the Winter Soldier is out of his goddamn mind.” He steps back. “When you stop having a pity party over here, come grab some food. It’s another thrilling meal of Soviet MREs. I know you love to watch me struggle with my gag reflex.”

            “Well, I could always help you with that,” I say, the words coming out unbidden.

            He rolls his eyes. “There he is.”

            As he walks away, I say, “Thanks.”

            He lifts a hand. “No worries.”

 

We make the transfer to _The Cornwall_ easily. The guy chartering the boat is an Australian expat with a cheerful red face  who talks a mile a minute as we cross the last of the ocean to land in the dead of night.

            “Thank God for global warming, eh?” he chuckles as we come into port. Sam is in the bottom of the boat huddled in a parka and amongst the bags. He catches my eyes, and I can tell he thinks right now that global warming is a myth.

            Steve’s watching the shore as we come in. It’s like he’s almost hungry for it. I don’t know why. This isn’t where he’s from. It’s on the other side of the continent from where he was born and raised. Maybe he’s just sick of all the boats. My guess is that the last time he took a boat ride that long was when he travelled with the USO from the States to Italy. He’s flown everywhere else.

            Once we’re hooked up to the dock, Sam is the first person out. I pass him up bags. Steve’s got his shield in its bag on his back. Apparently he can’t help himself. Steve leaps onto the dock, and the Australian just gives him a happy goodbye.

            He reaches out for me, and I take his hand. He pulls me in a few inches, and whispers, deadly serious, “Heil HYDRA.” I nod, and he lets me go. All smiles again, he points to the east. “Just down that road, fellas, you’ll find yourself a hotel. Might look at you a little side eyed for coming in at this hour, so don’t know that I’d recommend it if you think you can last.”

            I hop out of the boat, and he waves and says, “Bye bye,” and takes the boat back out into the water.

            We’re on the road when we hear the explosion. We all turn back to look. _The Cornwall_ has gone up in a fireball.

            After a second, I realize Steve and Sam are both looking at me.

            “It wasn’t me,” I say honestly. Sometimes those people do things like that. Self terminate when the mission is complete. I considered it, when I knew there would be no more missions.

            And yet, here I am.

 

Before dawn, I’ve robbed a bank.

            The bank was easy. It was a tiny little thing. I don’t even think it was part of a corporation. A real mom and pop kind of deal. There was only one camera. I told Steve and Sam to go find a car, and I went off with a plasma rifle, a hoodie, and my mask. It was actually a little surprising, though not unwelcome, how quickly I was able to break into the vault with a combination of the gun and my fist. I got away with as much as I could put in a single bag, which was $75000 Canadian. No idea what that is in American dollars.

            Steve doesn’t feel too good about the vehicle. I think it has to do with the pictures taped to the dashboard. They’re of kids. My guess is the car owner’s grandkids.

            “Borrowing,” he says to himself every few minutes.

            I want to roll my eyes. After all the damage we’ve done to the world, it’s ridiculous that he’s worried about a car.

 

We make it to the mainland later that day, leaving the car just outside the ferry at Prince Rupert. I’m the only one who’s not tired. I slept on the boat. Steve and Sam were so on edge about the whole thing that they didn’t even take shifts.

            So I’m the one who walks into the office at the first cheap looking hotel I see, and ask for two rooms. The woman behind the counter says, “I’ve got two rooms left. Single beds. Both queens.”

            “No doubles?”

            “Nope,” she says.

            I pick out the wallet I snagged off some guy, emptying out the contents on the ferry, just so I could have a place to put money. “This place have internet?”

            “Nope,” she repeats.

            Good.

            I’m going to tell Steve to share a room with Sam, because I’d like some time to myself. But he assumes it’s the two of us, like he has since we started this whole—I don’t know what to call it. Adventure might be a little too sarcastic. Steve grabs the keys from me. “Shower.”

            I hold up the other key for Sam, and he says, “Ah. All on my lonesome.”

            “Yeah, you enjoy that,” I mutter, and follow Steve into the room. First thing I do is pull the curtains closed.

            I figure he might balk. There’s only the one bed. I don’t mind, because it’s a bed, and if I have to sleep on the floor, then I’ll sleep on the floor.

            “Huh,” Steve says. “Like old times.” He just smiles at me sideways, starting to shed his bags, a few hundred pounds worth of weapons and ammunition.

            Actually—I think that maybe I mind.

            Then the TV turns on, and a low voice wavers, “Hello. Captain America.”


	20. MODOK

MODOK is on our TV screen.

            I’ve dropped into a roll, putting my back against the dresser the TV’s sitting on. Steve has spun to the side, looking at the television from his peripheral vision.

            “Unfortunately…I find myself without the capability to communicate with you…in both directions. You have been most careful about avoiding my gaze. However, the camera in the liquor store across the street allows me to verify that you have entered this room.”

            Steve reaches out, snapping his fingers to the right and then the left. Shaking his head, he says, “He can’t see us, Buck.”

            I close my eyes briefly. Sure, Steve. Use my name in front of the homicidal genius who tracked us down on the Canadian coast, just because he said he can’t hear us.  

            He’s done it, though, so I stand up and have a look at the screen.

            All that’s behind him is a blank grey surface, so that gives us no clues to his whereabouts. His suit has been damaged since the last time I saw it. It’s copper coloured, but I don’t know what kind of metal. It encases his body, as far as I can tell. The only part of his flesh that’s visible is his head.

            And that head. Good gravy.

            It’s about twice the size it should be. It’s behind a transparent sheet of something, glass or plastic or something else. His head is held up by metal rods. Without them, without the suit, I doubt he could stand on his own. He’s pale, lips thick and eyes almost closed. The skin on his face is peeling. A lock of black hair falls across his forehead.

            MODOK speaks slowly, tiredly. “Ten seconds have passed since my previous statement. This should be sufficient time to allow you to discern that while I can neither hear nor see you, I am now aware of your location and shall be continuously from this point forward.”

            “Sam—“ says Steve, stepping towards the door.

            “As I shall be with Samuel Wilson. You may…rest assured. He is at present watching a live feed of his mother with his youngest niece. They are at the park. I am informing him that if he leaves his room before we are done speaking, I will destroy the entire…city block where they are currently…situated.”

            Steve sucks in a little breath, glancing back at the wall. “What does he want?” he mutters.

            “I assume that you are asking yourself…what I want. Everyone—wants something, after all. My designation…is an accurate one. I desire…your destruction. You are…abomination.”

            Crossing his arms, Steve shakes his head. “Sounds awful funny coming from that mouth.”

            “And yes, I imagine you must be saying I am a hypocrite. We are both…born of science, are we not? We are not of nature. It is my intent…to make right what has gone so…wrong. I have had…my own plans. I had designs of my own.” His eyes dip closed for a moment. When they reopen, I can see that they’re bloodshot. He’s been awake too long. “But you have tried to take…what is mine.”

            Steve looks at me, brows furrowed. I shrug. No idea what the thing’s talking about.

            “Bad enough…that you did…what you should not. Life…is not the natural state of things. It is a flicker in the eye of the cosmos. You go against nature…by encouraging life. It sickens…me. Your sickness must be cleansed. I have known this…since my creation. You are what I was made for. I am the destroyer. That is my designation.”

            His voice begins to raise, anger slipping in. “Only you—who are already so sick…have seen fit to take my designation. You bring…death wherever you go. You have to take everything. Everything. No more.”

            I glance at Steve. He’s wide eyed, cheeks beginning to pinken.

            “Right now you think I am insane. You think I’m wrong. You are…Captain America. You are…a hero. You _save_ lives. Has anyone even pointed out to you…how death rides with you at every turn? Your whole life has been predicated on the death of others. Your father…Abraham Erskine…James Barnes. The people you love die, just because they near you. Have you ever noticed?” Steve steps forward, and MODOK says sharply, “Do not attempt to unplug the television before I am done speaking. I have calculated the likelihood of you doing so at 78.4%. Doing this will result in the termination of Penelope Wilson and her granddaughter, as well as the other 974 people currently in their radius.”

            Steve stills, large hands forming fists and his jaw setting.

            “I have…long since decided on a course of action…death bringer. As you can perhaps tell…the period I can remain online is limited. It has taken me some time…to put in action…a punishment fit for your crimes. It still requires some doing before it will be complete. I do appreciate that you returned to North America, as I intended. It does make things easier. I would suggest you remain near to a television or computer screen for further communication.”

            MODOK leans forward, suit almost pressing against the screen. “In the meantime, Captain America, you may ponder the question I asked myself—how many lives is yours worth?”

            The TV turns off.

            Steve’s moving a second later, past me and out of the room. I hear him knocking on Sam’s door.

            I just walk over to the dresser. I unplug the television.

 

Sam is stoic about the whole thing. He just says, “My mom looked good,” and we don’t say anything more on the topic.

            He’s perched on the end of his bed. I’m on the floor against the wall, and Steve’s in the only chair. He looks too big for it, unconsciously moving every so often in an effort to get comfortable.

            “Whatever he’s doing, I don’t imagine I’m the only one he’s aiming for,” Steve says grimly. “That bit at the end, about how many lives are worth mine—and the planning. My gut tells me he’s going for maximum casualties.”

            Sam runs a hand over his shorn head. “Okay, I’m going to put it out there. What about trying to talk to this guy? Or thing, or whatever he is?”

            “He’s a man,” I say. I have a switchblade and I’m using it to clean out the dirt from under my nails. “More or less.”

            “Sure—what about trying to reason with him?” I can’t believe he’s being that naïve. Steve I’d expect it from. Not Sam. He doesn’t seem affected by my withering gaze. “If he’s got a computer brain or whatever it is, he has to be reasonable, at least to some extent.”

            “About as reasonable as HAL 9000.”

            Sam raises his shoulders, giving me that point, as Steve inquires, “Was that a pop culture reference, and if you explain it to me will that help?”

            “I’m saying that a computer can have an error. But MODOK isn’t a computer; he’s worse. He’s a man with an enhanced brain. He might be able to interface with the internet through the suit—“ I lift my metal arm. “The same way I interact with this. It’s a tool. He’s as much a machine as I am. Shut up, Sam.”

            “You just line them up way too easy, JB.”

            “MODOK can’t be reasoned with, because he’s insane. He was enhanced, and then tortured into a new shape. Trust me. When I say he’s not coming back from this, he’s not coming back from it.”

            Steve says evenly, “Just because someone can be brainwashed doesn’t mean they can’t come back from it.”

            Shrugging it off, I say, “Even if we were talking about me, we all know that’s debateable. Listen to me. George Tarleton does _not_ exist. Only MODOK is home, and he wants your head on a stick. Or about fifty pieces of your head on tiny sticks.”

            “He’s obviously physically weak,” Steve says. “Is he always like that?”

            “He’s probably burned through his organs.”

            They’re both staring at me. I’m not sure what I’ve said this time to make them react like that. “Excuse me?” Sam says.

            “His brain.” They’re still staring at me. Lifting my hands, I explain, “His brain is like any other piece of AIM technology—it takes huge amounts of power. His body isn’t able to metabolize enough energy to compensate for his brain activity, so he burns through organs quickly.”

            “And then what?”

            “And then he gets new ones.”

            “From where?!”

            “I don’t know. If I knew how everything he did worked, I’d tell you how to kill him and we could just go eliminate the guy.”

            “And the suit?” says Steve.

            “It’s to compensate for his body. His head’s completely out of proportion. The suit walks for him, protects him. Last time I saw it, it had weapons, but his—“ I tap my left arm with the blade. It makes a good sound. “Missile launchers looked like they’ve taken a couple hits. They’re probably not even functional. He can mentally interface with the suit, and through that he can access the internet, but again, that takes a lot of power, physical and mental. Initially—I think—he could be online in the suit for an hour, and then he would have to rest for three to repower.”

            Steve sighs, “Finally some good news.”

            “Why would that be good news?”

            “Well—if he’s only online for an hour at a time—“

            “I said that was his suit the last time I saw it. Since HYDRA fell, I’m sure he’s come up with all kinds of programs to track your movements, or some kind of AI to do what he wants while he’s powered down. MODOK might sleep, but it doesn’t mean his servants do.”

            “So much for my two seconds of optimism,” Steve says, blowing out a breath. “Okay, so—“ He weaves his fingers together, looking down at the carpet. I think it might be as old we are. “Listen. I think…it’s time to make the call.”

            I frown. The call. “You sure?” says Sam.

            Steve shrugs. “Mass casualties, computers, science genius—yeah, I think it’s time to make the call.”

            It clicks, and I say, “Best of luck with that.”

            Steve furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

            I shake my head. “If you think MODOK is going to let you get in touch with Stark, you haven’t been paying attention.”

            “We have to try.”

            I could pretend to be surprised that he’s not listening, but that would be disingenuous. “So try. Both of you. Go in different directions, try any phone that you come across, any computer you find. It’s a small place. He’ll shut down all access to the town before you can do anything.”

            Steve says stubbornly, “We’ll try anyways. No harm in that, if we’re already here for the night.”

            I don’t say anything. I’ve got to figure out how the fuck I’m supposed to keep him alive. I flip the blade in my hand a few times, then pocket it.

 

About an hour after they go, I’m lying on the bed watching coverage of the tensions mounting between Russia and North Korea when the power abruptly goes out.

            I sigh. Again, not surprised.

            Just to be sure, I go to the window, and peek out the curtain. Far as the eye can see, MODOK’s turned the town dark.

           

When Steve comes back, I’m in bed. Not sleeping. Just laying here, staring at the ceiling.

            He locks the door, and asks, “You want to say I told you so?”

            “It doesn’t seem to work, so I might as well keep my mouth shut.”

            Unlacing his boots, he puts them neatly by the door, and hangs up his coat. “Every single phone we picked up, dead. Tried to use a computer, and the town went black.” He holds up a plastic bag. “Brought you some food.”

            “Not hungry.”

            “I’ll leave it over here, for later.” He tosses off his cap, rubbing his head briskly with both hands. Groaning, Steve runs his hands over his face. “I feel like a hobo.”

            He strips his shirt over his head, and I ignore how good he looks. It’s mildly distressing that I have to make an effort these days. “Have a shower,” I instruct. “Get some sleep. Start again tomorrow.”

            Bunching his shirt in his hands, Steve hangs out at the end of the bed. “I—have an idea.”

            Those broad shoulders that look like they were carved from marble are giving me plenty of ideas. That’s another side effect of all that time spent with him these last few weeks. Kind of hard to distinguish between what I want and what this body wanted a long time ago. “Is it a stupid idea?”

            “Probably. But we need to take the initiative.”

            He tells me his plan.

            At the end, I say, “Huh.”

            “Too much?”

            “No,” I reply. “That’ll do it. That sure puts us in a position, doesn’t it.”

            “Yeah, well—we’ve been in worse.” He nods towards the bathroom. “I’m gonna have a shower.” I nod. I watch to see if he’s going to try to turn on the light in the bathroom. He does, then snorts sheepishly. “Uh, Buck? I’m just going to leave the door open to try and get some light.”

            “Okay.”

            I mull it over. I like his plan. It’s gutsy. It’s the kind of foolhardy thing he would have come up with back in the war.

            And just like in the war, I’ll be sent in to do the stuff he’s not comfortable with. That’s not a problem. I’ve never had a problem being the bad guy, if Steve needs me to be.

 

Five minutes later, he comes out in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, still scrubbing at his face.

            “Steven Grant Rogers,” I mutter, “you keep doing that, you’ll rub it right off.”

            “Doesn’t feel right,” he grumbles, crawling onto his side of the bed. He pulls the sheets up over his shoulders, curling up to make himself smaller.

            I’m suddenly really uncomfortable. He’s about two feet away from me. There’s no reason I should be in any kind of discomfort. Steve’s my ally, and I guess my friend. And I’m not the one who’s in love with him. That was Bucky, and I might be Bucky but I’m not him either, so I don’t have to be in love with Steve either. I have enough to deal with.

            I’ve always slept on my back—not _always_ always, but since I became the Winter Soldier—and it’s how I still feel most comfortable at night. Now it feels rigid, like I’m worrying about something.

            Steve says, “Know what this reminds me of?”

            “The apartment.”

            “Yeah. That cave. Mr. Krakinski upstairs. Do you remember him?”

            “No.”

            “Old guy. Half out of his mind. He’d holler at you out the window whenever you came home late from a date, wake up half the building.”

            “Sounds like a gem.”

            “Buck.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Why does Sam call you JB?”

            I shift. No, I fidget. God, when did I start learning to fidget? “I’ve had a lot of names. It’s a new life. Figured it was probably a good idea to have a name for this one.”          And somehow, I can feel how upset he is about that. It’s my name, it’s my life, but even now I can’t stand the idea of letting him down. “It’s okay if you call me Bucky. I know that’s all you’re ever going to call me.”

            “It’s all I’ve ever called you.”

            “You called me Sergeant Barnes, once.”

            His chuckle is low, gently shaking the bed. “You remember that, huh?”

            “Kind of. It’s hazy.” We don’t say anything more about that day. I realize it was pretty awful, even if I don’t feel it like I used to.

            “Are you going to be okay if I keep calling you Bucky?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Buck?”

            “What is this, a sleepover? You and your questions.”

            “Sorry, I’ll—“

            “Steve. Ask.”

            The silence falls between us like a third person, until finally he says quietly, “What do you remember from when you were the Winter Soldier?”

            I look at his back. He’s trying to stay relaxed, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. He doesn’t want to know, but he knows he has to ask.  

            “As much as I remember about being Bucky. Only I don’t think about it. It’s easier to think about being Bucky.”

            “You know that…if you ever wanted to talk about the other stuff…I’d listen. No matter how bad it was.”

            I shake my head slightly. “I don’t think we need to do that.”

            “Maybe we do. Need to do that.”

            “Why?”

            “What do you mean?”

            I curl my metal hand in front of my face. I used to be a welder. I could make things out of metal. But I could have never made anything as fine as this. “I mean your expectations and reality would be a world apart.”

            He turns onto his back, looking over at me. “Explain that to me.”

            I raise my shoulders, lifting my hand to my ear. When I curl and uncurl my fingers, I can hear the soft _swish_ of metal. The sound satisfies me. “I know what I did when I was the Winter Soldier. I did it on command. I killed. Everyone can say it wasn’t me, or it wasn’t my fault, and I suppose it wasn’t my fault, but it _was_ me in a way. It was my hands. And even though people say it’s not my fault, I’m supposed to still feel guilty for everything. I’m supposed to not understand, or not be able to process what happened. I understand what happened, and I don’t…feel bad about what my hands did.”

            After a few seconds, Steve says, “Sorry?”

            I look at him, careful not to blink or give anything away. “The people the Winter Soldier murdered. I don’t feel guilty about that. Probably because I was programmed not to, and that just hasn’t gone away. Like how good I am with weapons, or knowing the names of places, or which roads to take. That hasn’t gone. I get the impression that I’m supposed to scream and cry and want to atone for all the kids and women and men I murdered, but—I don’t think it’s in me, Steve. I think that piece of me just got burned out when I died. And I don’t think it’s ever coming back.”

            He’s gazing at me in the dark, unblinking. I look away, because I don’t want to be judged. I know I shouldn’t care. I guess I do anyways.

            “It must be pretty disappointing for you,” I say. “You sided with me, and I’m never going to be fixed. I’m never going to be the guy who was on the train again.”

            “Hey,” he says, and his voice is sharp. “Everybody changes.”

            “But nobody else becomes _this_.”

            “We…lead lives that not many people live, Buck. Our world doesn’t usually—mesh with everyone else’s.”

            “Do you think you’re worth more than other people?”

            “ _No_. I wish people would stop bringing that up—“

            “If it was anyone else who’d done the things I’ve done, would you feel the same? Would you have let me live?”

            To his credit, he doesn’t lie. “No.”

            “Why?”

            “Now you’re being obtuse.” Steve scratches at his beard, then sighs deeply. “When it comes down to it—if you do decide you want to scream and cry about it, I’ll listen. And if you don’t, that’s fine too. Whoever you are now—some things change, and some don’t.”

            At that, he rolls back over onto his side.

            Steve Rogers. His inability to see the worst in people is going to get him torn to shreds. I wrap my arms around myself, scowling at the ceiling.

            “Buck?”

            I close my eyes, trying not to let my exasperation come through in my voice. “Yeah.”

            “Do…you remember the spring formal? When I was fifteen? You would have just turned seventeen.”

            “No. Why? What about it?”

            Steve pushes his hands up under the pillow, and shakes his head against it. “No reason. I was just thinking about it. Not sure why.”

            “Who was my date?”

            “Denise DiPaolo.”

            “I don’t remember her. Who was your date?”

            “Her kid sister.”

            “Double date. We do okay?”

            “Yeah,” Steve says softly. He tugs the blankets up higher. “Goodnight, Buck.”

            “Night.”

            Just to see if I can, I turn over on my stomach. I’ll see if my body will sleep this way. I close my eyes, and see nothing but the black.

 

I jolt awake.

            It’s confusing. I’m on my belly. Why would I be like this?

            Status.

            In a bed. I’m in a bed and someone’s thrashing, someone’s whimpering.

            Steve. Right. I’m in a bed with Steve, in Canada. And Steve’s had nightmares, ever since he was a kid.

            Instinctively, I reach out to pet his hair, but my hands stops in mid-air. It’s my metal hand.

            Withdrawing immediately, I blink my eyes a few times, then say gruffly, “Steve.” That doesn’t do anything. “Steve!”

            He wakes with a gasp. His hand goes automatically for the shield beside the bed. “What’s wrong?”

            “You’re having a nightmare. You’re keeping me up. Go take a walk or something.” I roll over, and I go back to sleep.

            I still do not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just me wanting to say thank you again. The story sort of blew past 1000 hits yesterday, which for someone really new to this whole thing is pretty staggering. I'm so grateful for every one of you who've made it this far, as well as those of you might come to it one day. Thank you for your patience, your enthusiasm, your comments, and just generally being awesome people.


	21. Malfunction

_Half an hour after the soldier kills the senator in his pool, he is in a diner near the oceanside. He has an hour until he is supposed to meet his handlers, and he is hungry. It is a deviation, but not outright disobedience. He is supposed to meet them at 3:15, and it is 2:15._

_“Hey dude.” He looks up at the girl on roller skates who’s come up to his table. She has long, golden blond hair and the bottom of her shorts nearly reach her genitals. She flips open a notebook, and raises her brows. “What are you having?”_

_He looks down at the menu. He has not been asked what he wanted to eat in…._

_Unimportant. Select an option._

_“Not that complicated, buddy.”_

_He finds himself asking, “What’s good?”_

_She shrugs, scratching behind her ear with her pencil. “I like the spaghetti.”_

_The soldier holds the menu up to her. “The spaghetti will be fine, please.”_

_“Please and everything. Aren’t you a catch. You want a drink?”_

_He is supposed to smile sometimes so that people aren’t afraid or remember him. So he does this. “I don’t suppose you have vodka.”_

_She barks. “I wish. I can get you a Bud. Pretty early, but I’m not one to judge.”_

_“That would be fine. Thank you.”_

_“Right on.” She skates away from him. The soldier watches. Roller skates. Is that a skill he should have? It looks like a fairly convenient mode of transport over mid-range distances._

_He sits still at the table for the next five minutes. Hands on his thighs, below the table. Eyes straight ahead to the booth across from him._

_The waitress skates back with an open can. “There you go.”_

_“Thank you.” He picks it up and takes a sip. It is not unsatisfying._

_“What’s with the gloves?”_

_He looks up at her. She is studying him with slightly narrowed eyes. He goes on alert immediately. The diner is not full, but there are six other patrons as well as presumably one cook if not two. They are between him and the door._

_They are separated from the rest of the diner by a short partition. It’s possible that he can kill her and sit her down in the booth without anyone noticing and walk out. If they do notice, he will have to eliminate all targets._

_“I have a skin condition,” he says, as he was trained to do._

_Now she looks even more suspicious. Hand on her hip, she says, “So what? Like, were you in the war?”_

_The soldier asks honestly, “Which one?”_

_He has no explanation for it, but that defuses the situation immediately. She laughs, tossing her gold hair back, and says, “You started early, didn’t you, brother.”_

_“Yes,” he says, because that seems like the correct answer. She means drinking. He makes his mouth turn into a small, conspiratorial smile. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”_

_She sends him a crooked grin, then leans down and whispers, “Baby, I am_ baked _right now. You do what makes you happy.” She stands back up and winks. “Your food’ll be up soon.”_

_“Thank you,” he says again._

_He spends the next fifteen minutes surveying his surroundings. Another person has entered the establishment. A boy aged approximately twelve to thirteen, seated at the counter in sandals and shorts. Everyone here has shaggy hair and the men have large mustaches. He would never want a mustache. It would interfere with the integrity of his mask._

_Outside the window is beach. There are plenty of people running by. He cannot be entirely anonymous here. Everyone wears short sleeves and reveal so much skin. They look vulnerable to attack. His outfit was chosen by his handlers. He is wearing khakis and a black t-shirt, with a thin bulletproof layer underneath. On top he wears an olive green jacket, like he has seen occasionally on other men here. They also have his long hair and the way they stare into the distance is the same expression he recognizes from when he spies his reflection. He thought it was a fitting enough outfit, but he has had two encounters in the last four hours where someone asked if he was in ‘the war.’ He will report to his handlers that his outfit was miscalculated, and he was perceived by civilians as a soldier._

_That’s what he is. That is all he is. He is supposed to be invisible, however._

_He watches the waitress return on her roller skates, a plate of pasta balanced on her arm with sauce on top that is alarmingly red. It is the colour of arterial blood. There must be dyes in the food. He is resistant to most forms of poison thanks to his metabolism, so he weighs the risk and decides to eat it._

_“There you go, chief,” the waitress says, setting the plate down in front of him._

_“Thank you,” the soldier answers, and picks up his fork._

_He is not certain at first how to eat this. It seems to be long strings of pasta under sauce. It appears inefficient and quite possibly messy. At home base he is mostly fed protein mush._

_The soldier picks up his fork, and plants it in the middle of the plate._

_Then slowly, he begins to turn the fork in a circle._

_He has done this before. Muscle memory. He is satisfied by this. It’s like when he picks up a weapon he can’t recall having seen before, but knowing how many rounds it fires per minute and being able to disassemble it blind folded._

_The soldier twirls the fork until a sufficient portion is acquired, then lifts it off the plate and puts it in his mouth. The texture is—he cannot say. He pauses, uncertain, then begins to chew._

_We saw ourselves on television. We went to the first science fiction convention. We couldn’t afford it but we—_

STATUS.

            _The soldier is frozen because he is having an error and he doesn’t understand the importance of these memories and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do—_

INCORRECT. MALFUNCTION.

            _The soldier is afraid. There is no I. I is not allowed. There is only the soldier. There is only…there is only…._

_He is going to choke. He leans forward, and lets the food in his mouth fall back on his plate. His pulse has risen to unacceptable levels. It is becoming difficult to keep my breath at an even rate._

_“Hey!” He looks up, startled. The waitress has returned, studying him in genuine concern. She glances at the plate, and says, “Oh shit. Was the sauce cold? I’m sorry, Carl’s a real—“_

_“I can’t eat this,” the soldier says._

_“No—dude, I’m sorry, let me—“_

_The soldier is pushing himself up because I have to get out of here because I we are am malfunctioning and must retreat retreat is required necessary immediate—error. I am error._

_He finds the money in his pocket and puts down ten dollars, and it seems an exorbitant amount, but he suddenly can’t remember what the rate of exchange is. “Is that enough? I—apologize. I’m not feeling well.”_

_“Hey—chill, you don’t need to pay, the food was bad—“_

_“Is that enough?” I ask desperately._

_She blinks, and nods. “Yeah. But seriously, you don’t—“_

_“Excuse me,” the soldier says, and puts his head down and leaves the diner._

_He is disoriented. He needs to report to the extraction point immediately and report the malfunction._

_They’ll wipe me._

_I_ need _a reset._

_Wrong. This is wrong. This is all very wrong._

_The soldier moves behind the shops on the boardwalk because I don’t want anyone to look at me but there’s people everywhere and I can hide if there’s people and they won’t find me._

_NO! I must report to the extraction point. I am malfunctioning!_

_The soldier moves quickly, his head down, because even now I know how to blend into a crowd, it’s second nature, and he heads towards his go bag. He knows where the nearest bus station is. He has been briefed on all possible exits in case the mission is compromised and I have to escape._

_INCORRECT._

_The soldier goes to the lockers at the end of the beach and uses his key. He gets his bag and then he turns and goes, he goes until he finds a cab that he can flag down off the boardwalk._

_Slipping inside, he discovers that he is trembling all over. “Where are you going, my man?” asks the cabbie._

_“The Greyhound station,” I say quietly._

_“You got it.”_

_My hands are clenched into the bag. This is incorrect. I am not behaving as I am supposed to. There is no I. There is the soldier. I am the soldier. The soldier is this body. That’s all there is._

_Swallowing, the soldier asks, “Excuse me—what is the time?”_

_“Ah—3:04, boss.”_

_The soldier nods. He wraps his arms around his bag. He can still comply. He can request that the taxi stop, and if he runs, if he runs very very fast, he can still make it to the extraction point at 3:15._

_There is an apartment somewhere. Our apartment._

_The soldier covers his mouth with his flesh hand, because he thinks he’s going to scream, and if he uses his metal hand to hold it back, he might break his own jaw._

_When he reaches the Greyhound station and gets inside, the first thing he looks for is a clock._

_It is 3:16._

_He wants to throw up. It is 3:16 and it is the first time in twenty eight years that he has disobeyed a direct order._

_I take the first bus out of there, which is to Dallas. From Dallas, I take the next available exit, and that is the train to Chicago._

_The soldier cannot sleep. He can go three days without sleep or food. He has water when the bus stops, but he doesn’t try to eat because of this sick feeling in his stomach._

_I turn to the woman across the aisle from me, and say, “Excuse me, ma’am?”_

_The way she looks at me, it’s like I’m a thing instead of a person._

_Which is correct. I’m not a person. I’m the soldier. It is correct that she looks at me like I am disobedient, because I am._

_I ask, “Can you tell me what year it is?”_

_She stares at me, then I remember._

_I smile faintly. “I’ve already asked you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s been a rough couple of—years.”_

_I turn my face back to the window, and press my face against the coolness of it, and I try to find satisfaction in it but I fail._

_At the Chicago station, the next train is to Philadelphia. I don’t take that. I wait two hours for the bus to New York._

_I can’t stop shaking. I ingested a meal at the Chicago terminal but I cannot recall what it was._

_My brain is full of knives. Every one is a memory and they’re stabbing at me but I won’t let them through, I can’t let them through, because if I do, I think that I will die._

_Yes. I will die._

_I’m crushing my bag to my chest, and I don’t know what to do. I’m on another bus and I don’t know why I’m going to New York. I shouldn’t have waited, I just need to keep moving. I need to stay away from them because they’ll hurt me._

_Who are_ they _?_

_Oh God. I don’t know. I don’t know._

_I start mumbling, and I don’t even know what language I’m speaking in, but I say the same thing over and over, “Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then I am strong.”_

_Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then I am strong._

_Over and over._

_Even though I don’t know what it means. Even though I don’t know what I’m running from or where I’m going._

_Someone sits down on my left, and I suck in a startled breath._

_“At ease, soldier,” he says._

_I’m so scared. I’m so scared. I’m so scared._

_“Corinthians. That’s a good one.” He clucks, and says, “How you doing, soldier?”_

_I hunch in on myself. Is he they? Is he here for me? I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. They’ll hurt me. I don’t want to be hurt anymore._

_“You look like you’re having some trouble here. You want to talk about it?”_

_I shake my head. Please don’t hurt me._

_His hand comes across into my field of vision. “Captain John Ramirez.”_

_Why is he holding his hand out to me?_

_Does he—does he want me to shake his hand?_

_I want him to go away. Maybe if I do what he wants, he’ll go away faster. I have to turn my body to shake his hand, and that’s when I see it._

_His left arm isn’t an arm. It’s a hook._

_“You too?” I ask._

_He has a friendly face. He’s maybe fifty, with grey in his black hair, and skin the colour of the beach I was sitting by a few days ago. Fuck,_ what _beach? Glancing down at his hook, he says, “What, this?” He holds it up. “This is courtesy of the Wehrmacht in ’44, son.” He smiles at me. “Don’t think you ever met the Wehrmacht.”_

_Have I? What’s the Wehrmacht?_

_“I’ve got one too,” I say._

_“You got one what?”_

_I pull off the glove and show him my metal hand._

_His eyes widen, and he says, “Holy Toledo. Look at what they’ve got for you kids these days.” He looks me over. “How high’s that go up?”_

_“My shoulder. Sir.”_

_“If that’s what they’ve got going now, I think I need to start asking some questions at the VA.” He waves the hook a little. “This is good for scaring the neighbourhood kids, but if that’s something I could get, I’m going to really impress my grandkids.” He shrugs. “Well, right now I have one grandkid, and she’s three days old. But in about five years, she knows her granddad has a robot arm, I’m going to look aces in her eyes, you know what I mean?”_

_His accent is soothing. I want to rest against it and go to sleep. Instead, I put my glove back on. I’m supposed to keep my hand hidden when I’m alone. I don’t know why. I think there’s a lot of things that I know that I don’t have an answer for._

_“You got a name, soldier?”_

_Him calling me that gives me the shudders, and I’m hugging my bag again._

_“Everybody’s got a name, soldier.”_

_“Sergeant,” I whisper._

_“Sergeant. Well, that’s a start. So, Sarge? Where are you headed?”_

_“I dunno. Home—I think.”_

_Until I say it, I haven’t even realized it’s true._

_“Where’s home? Let me guess. You sound like Brooklyn to me.”_

_I don’t know if that’s right, but I nod._

_Captain Ramirez nods, and says, “Me, I’m the Bronx. Born and raised. But the wife—she’s from Chicago, and a job opened up for me there about five years ago—so now I’m living in the Windy City. Lucy, though, my daughter? She’s still back home. Just had a little girl. Rebecca.”_

_“That was my sister’s name.”_

_I don’t know where that came from. I don’t even know if it’s true._

_“It’s a good name,” Captain Ramirez says. He looks me over, and he looks like a father. I don’t  know what that means. “So what’s the story, son?”_

_“My head hurts,” I say, my voice cracking._

_“Are you high?”_

_I scowl, and snap, “No sir, I ain’t no hophead.”_

_He smiles a little, and says, “Just having some trouble.”_

_My anger flees immediately, and I’m embarrassed by my rudeness. “I think it’s more than trouble, Captain.” I look out the window. Snow. Why am I frightened by the snow? “What year is it?”_

_He’s silent for a long moment. “1973, Sergeant.”_

_“1973,” I echo. “And it’s February.”_

_“Yeah. Son—you can’t remember what year it is?”_

_“I can’t remember much of anything at all.”_

_“Who’s picking you up when we get to the city? You got family waiting for you there?”_

_I shake my head. “No,” I murmur with absolute certainty. “No one’s waiting for me.”_

_When we arrive in the city, we get off at the same station in Manhattan. He’s said he’ll help me find a hotel, try and figure things out, but when we step off the bus, his daughter is there with his new granddaughter, and I slip away unnoticed._

_My head is pounding. It’s night. It’s snowy. I don’t like the snow. I don’t know why. I think I had a nightmare once about waking up alone in the snow. Just thinking about it makes me want to groan._

_I feel like I’m going to crack open._

_I walk by myself and I’m cold. I’m not dressed for this weather. I don’t know where I came from but it obviously wasn’t snowing there._

_I’m not sure where I’m going. I think I’m headed southeast. I can’t tell with the sun down. Or maybe I can and I just don’t know it._

_What am I doing?_

_Where am I going?_

_What is my name? Do I have one?_

_I hold my bag over my shoulder. I’ve looked in it a few times. The bag has fifty thousand dollars in cash and three passports with the same man’s face on them. He has hair that’s too long and dead eyes and prominent cheekbones and it doesn’t look like he sleeps much. Each passport is in a different language and has a different name on it. The bag also has two pistols. They are loaded._

_I walk and I walk and I walk until finally I get to the East River Drive, only there are signs saying it’s FDR Drive but that doesn’t make any sense._ None _of this makes sense and I’m scared but I also feel like my heart might explode too. There’s something. I’m going to find something._

_I am. I’m going to find something._

_I run across the road, through the traffic. Cars stop and honk, and I ignore them. I jump over the fence, and then I jog until I actually hit the chain-link._

_Across the water is Brooklyn._

_I can see the shipyard. That’s where I worked. I was a welder. I was a welder and I helped make ships. I made things. That’s Brooklyn. Brooklyn is where I’m from._

_Brooklyn is where_ we _are from._

_Steve._

_I’m being cut down the middle. I’m split open and everything is spilling in and it’s in all the wrong places and it is nothing, nothing, nothing that I want to know. My legs give out, and I slump to the sidewalk, choking on nothing._

_Steve is dead._

_I’m alive and Steve is dead._

_It’s 1973 and Steve has been dead for twenty eight years._

_My hands curl into the chain-link. My left hand warps it with my strength._

_It is 1973 and Steve is dead and I am alive and God I wish I wasn’t._


	22. Vancouver

This is how we figure out what we need to know without using a computer.

            I ask the woman at the front desk where I can find a bank, using the scrambler before I ask. There’s five in town. I take TD Canada Trust, Steve takes Scotiabank and CIBC, Sam takes BMO and RBC. We each take a scrambler. I only have the three, so I hope they don’t destroy them.

            I walk into the bank, and there’s no one ahead of me. I smile slightly at the teller, one of my practiced smiles. She’s chubby and attractive, maybe Indian. “Hi there,” I say.

            “Hello. How can I help you today?” Maybe twenty five. I remember what it was like to be that young.

            “I’m looking into opening an account, and I was hoping that I could speak to someone about that.” I inject more warmth into my smile. “If that’s not too much trouble.”

            She smiles back. “Of course. Give me just a moment.”

            As she walks away, I tilt my head to watch her behind in that pencil skirt. Life’s small pleasures. I’m enjoying them more and more.

            I’m invited into an office, and the man behind the desk says, “So how can I help you today?”

            Turning on the scrambler, I fry his computer, phone, and every other piece of electronics in a ten foot radius. His screen simply freezes, saving me some trouble.

I fold my hands in my lap, and say, “Long story short—I’ve spent most of my life travelling overseas. Now that I’m staying in one country, I’d like to open up a permanent account. Honestly, though, I’m looking into my options. Would you mind telling me a little about your company?”

           

I get home before the others, because I’ve struck out and I only had the one place to canvas. I think Steve thought I’d be incapable of convincing people I was normal. Frankly, I think he’s going to have a hell of a lot harder time lying to people than I would. I eat the last of the leftovers and wait for the two of them to return.

            Steve is first. He shakes his head at me. “Not them.”

            I pull out the map of greater Vancouver that I stole from a gas station, out of sight of the camera. “Picked this up.”

            “Good,” he says, taking it out, and folding it on the floor. He pulls a few pages out of his pocket. “I managed to find a better hotel than this one with a phone book for Vancouver. Phone book—God, I’ve missed phone books. I have all the addresses for the banks in Vancouver proper, West Vancouver—everything that was in the book.”

            He starts lining up addresses to locations on the map, just to get an idea of the layout. “How’d it go? The scrambler work?”

            Steve makes a face. “She noticed her computer had died before I left. Hit it a few times and it came back on.”

            “But it was on while you were asking about the company?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Then we’re probably fine. MODOK is surveilling us by satellite. He knows we’re looking into banks. If we’re lucky, he won’t have figured out why just yet. Or more likely, he has and he’s working on a way to screw us.”

            Steve doesn’t seem phased by my pessimism. “How fast can we get to the city?”

            “Since flying isn’t an option—twenty two hours driving.” Steve sighs, and I say, “Sam and I will do the driving, city boy.”

            “Hey, I do all right—“

            “For a guy without a driver’s license.”

            There’s a tap at the door. Steve gets up to let Sam in. Waving some pamphlets, Sam steps inside, saying, “Yahtzee.”

            “Which one?” asks Steve, stepping close to him.

            Sam holds up a blue and gold brochure. “RBC.”

            We’re on the road about a half hour later in a minivan that has decals on the back window of a stick figure family and a dog. It’s old enough that there’s no computer system inside. We’d really prefer to not have MODOK as our fourth passenger.

 

We agree to four hour shifts. I gave Sam the gears about not knowing how to read a map, but the man was able to fly over a landscape with metal wings and no map in battle conditions and still find his target. When it’s my turn to take over, we’re still on the right road and he’s made better time than I expected.

            Steve is sleeping in the back seat, and Sam’s still up front with me. There was an iPod left in the van, and Sam seems to have the same taste in music as the middle aged mother who owned it, because we spent the last five hours listening to Al Green and Stevie Wonder.

            “I’d rather sit here in silence,” I say.

            “You’d rather do a lot of things that we’re not going to,” Sam replies. He’s slumped down in his seat, getting sleepy around the eyes.

            “The second you’re asleep I’m tossing this thing out the window.”

            “You do and you’ll lose your other arm. This iPod is now mine.” He glances towards the backseat. “Don’t tell Cap.”

            “Didn’t you know—we’re just _borrowing_ it.”

            Dropping his voice, he says below his breath, “We’re gonna do something about this van, aren’t we?”

            I nod. “Uh huh.”

            “Don’t suppose you know what the drone situation is like in Canada, do you?”

            “No. We’re not that far from Washington state, though. I imagine MODOK could muster something pretty fast from there.”

            “Well. Them’s the breaks, as my mom says.”

            “Are you worried he’ll kill her once we do this?”

            Sam doesn’t say anything.

            I close my eyes briefly. “I didn’t think about what I was saying until it was already coming out of my mouth.”

            “No, JB, I’m sitting here not thinking at all about how my entire goddamn family has no idea they’re being watched by a crazy head in a tin suit. I’m not thinking about that _at_ all. Why don’t we go ahead and discuss it?”

            “Or we could not.”

            “Or we could not,” Sam mutters tersely. He props his head against the window, a soft growl coming from his throat. “Thanks for nothing.”

            I watch the headlights on the road before us for a while. We’re closed in on both sides of the narrow road by trees and rock. It feels like a lot of the places I’ve been to in Europe, only the roads are slightly better maintained.

            ‘How Can You Mend a Broken Heart’ comes on, and I glance at the stereo.

            “Leave Al alone,” Sam says.

            On a whim, and I wasn’t aware that I could do things on a whim, I say, “How about we change places tomorrow? I’ll take Steve, and you can be the bad guy.”

            Sam lets out a short, sharp bark. “It might be Canada, but some things are the same most places. I’d get myself _shot_ , and I think I’ve already done that enough this past month. Besides—you think I’m letting you anywhere near my things?”

            “Selfish.”

            “Uh huh.” Sam pushes himself up, and shrugs. “Yeah—I’m worried that a whole bunch of people are gonna get killed because of what we’re going to do tomorrow. But if we do it fast—if Tony and SHIELD get the message quick—then the threat could be contained. We’re in kind of a tough position here, JB. Even tougher than usual. Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t.”

            “There will definitely be reprisals.”

            “I didn’t get into this life thinking I’d be safe.” He glances at me, and admits, “I just thought that other people…would be safer than they have been.”

            It’s like a swift kick to the face. I can’t believe I haven’t realized this before. “Sam.”

            Rubbing a hand over his shorn head, he sighs, “Yeah?”

            “You could save the world.”

            He turns and looks at me like I have two heads. “Excuse me?”

            It’s obvious. I think the only reason it’s taken me this long to figure it out is because in my first and current lives, Steve has been the most important person. “You could save the world,” I repeat.

            “How?”

            “No, I mean—you’re a hero. There’s nothing Steve possesses that you don’t.”

            Sam shakes his head at me, laughing a little. “Other than super strength, increased agility—“

            “The physical bit isn’t what’s most relevant. Steve was 5’4”. He was always so sick that I saw him receive the last rites once. He found his power. He wasn’t born with it. Being able to hit things hard—that’s not what makes a person a hero. Any more than flying does.”

            “Wait. You’re not being _earnest_ with me, are you? Because I don’t know how to—“

            “You could be the person to save the world. The next time. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be you. Just because it hasn’t been you yet doesn’t mean it won’t be.”

            Sam stares at me for a few seconds, then says, “Barnes, are you off your nut again?”

            “No wonder you and Steve get on so good. I couldn’t see it at first. Here I’ve been thinking of you as his sidekick—“

            “Sidekick—“ Sam yelps, and Steve shifts in the back seat, grunting. Sam glances at him, then glares at me, turning in his seat and speaking in a deadly hiss. “Bitch—I am no one’s sidekick—“

            “I’ve figured that out now.”

            “Now? Just now. I was a paratrooper. I was a test pilot. I was a prisoner on the Raft. I am a goddamn legitimate superhero, and you’re only now just realizing—“

            “Everyone considered me _his_ sidekick,” I reply with a shrug. “I was a sergeant in the US army—I was a sniper—I was a year older than him—but everyone and history will always remember me as Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s sidekick. You know—the one who went wrong.” I see a rabbit far ahead and slow down the van to let it cross. “You’ll probably be the next Captain America, if Steve’s keeps up his ‘I’m just a regular guy like everyone else’ shtick.”

            After a moment, Sam sits back. “I cannot tell if you’re fucking with me.”

            The old voice slips into mine, and I purr, “Pigeon—you’d know if I was fuckin’ with ya.”

            “Please. You’re old enough to be my grandfather. Not that that’s ever stopped you.”

            “You know—I was thinking about the timeline a little more, and it’s actually possible that Semyon’s—“

            He puts up his hands. “Nope. Now I know that you’re just pulling my leg. We’ve already played this game.”

            I smile faintly, speeding the van up again.

            Sam shakes his head some more, then picks up the iPod. “Okay, Al. Time for something new. Here we go—she’s got _Trouble Man_.” He rolls his eyes. “Not that you’d know what—“

            “Marvin Gaye,” I reply.

            “Steve tell you about that?”

            I pause, then say, “No. I was in the States in the early seventies.”

            “Doing what? Wai—“

            Before he can finish saying ‘wait,’ I answer, “Killing a senator.”

            Sam blows out a breath, and mutters, “Marvin it is.”

           

We leave almost all our gear at the rendezvous point, then continue into the city. Steve looks happier than he has in days. I think it’s because he was allowed to shave off his beard yesterday. After all, infamy is kind of what we’re counting on.

            I don’t think I’ve been here before. It reminds me a little of Hong Kong, nestled in the mountains, though the air quality here is markedly better. I was concerned briefly about visibility thanks to the usual state of the Pacific Northwest, but even if Plan B didn’t work, Plan A still could.

            We stop by the first phone booth we can find, which actually takes a while. “First time in my life I’m cursing cell phones,” Sam says.

            I turn on him. He’s currently behind the wheel. “Really? Because I got to curse your cell phones repeatedly in the last few—“

            “Let’s see if Tony will accept a collect call,” Steve says, and climbs out of the van. He stretches as he walks over to the booth, limbering up for what’s coming.

            “Want to lay money?” Sam asks.

            “On what?” I reply.

            “Dunno. Which city MODOK blows up to show off how pissed he is at us.”

            “Well, Washington and New York have already been done.”

            “There was the assassination attempt in Miami.”

            “Yeah, but no one’s _destroyed_ Miami yet.”

            We look at each other, and say almost simultaneously, “Philadelphia.”

            “Well shit,” Sam mutters, and we both look to see if Steve’s having any luck. He’s not. He tries a couple times, then shakes his head at us. Stepping out of the booth, he looks up at the sky, and gives a jaunty salute.

            “Same old Steve,” I murmur, a little pleased with him.

            He gets back in, pulling the door shut, and says, “MODOK appears to still be stalking us.”

            I pull away from the curb, saying, “Sam and I agree that MODOK’s probably going to destroy Philadelphia in retaliation.”

            After a pause, Steve says, “That’s not exactly funny, Buck.”

            Frowning, I reply, “Who was trying to be funny?”

 

There’s at least four other branches in walking distance, but I like this one because it’s in the middle of tall buildings. The windows in the front are high too, meaning the inside will be fairly large. It’s not a small operation.

            “This’ll do,” I say, as Sam pulls around the block. There’s no parking on the street, which is fine. It’ll make more of a commotion when he does stop. I take the opportunity to look at possible exit vehicles.

            “How cold is it out there?”

            “It’s going to be a little brisk, Sam,” says Steve.

            I climb into the backseat, opening my bag. I withdraw my rifle. It’s a sleek HYDRA number from the early ‘90s. Plasma. Seeing the blue glow settles me somewhere deep inside.

            “Remember,” Steve says quietly, “your mission is to pacify, not eliminate.”

            “Yes sir,” I say, and I might be a bit disingenuous. I’ve rediscovered how little I like taking orders.

            He bends his head down, catching my eye. It’s the same look he’d give me when I’d promise I’d be home in time for dinner, when we both knew full well I’d probably be trying to chat up that girl at the all night diner by the yard. The ‘who do you think you’re fooling’ look.

            I do like having a mission with defined perimeters and deadlines. The idea of spending eternity in the Yukon really didn’t appeal to me. I don’t know if I’m capable of living without missions anymore.

            “Nobody shoots at me, I won’t shoot at them.”

            His eyebrow goes higher.

            “You don’t want me to shoot at someone who’s shooting at me?”

            “God, you’re stubborn.” He looks at the clock on the dashboard. “Meet at the rendezvous at 16:00 hours.”

            “Yes sir,” and that time it’s genuine.

            Steve sighs as Sam slows in front of the bank. I’m slipping my mask out of my black coat, and I fasten it onto my face. Immediately, I feel calmer. Mission ready.

            The vehicle stops, and Steve says, almost stunned, “Buck—“

            “16:00,” I respond, and hop out of the vehicle, putting my rifle over my shoulder.

            It is one thirty in the afternoon and it looks like a fairly busy area. People immediately stop and look at me as I stride confidently across the wide sidewalk. They scatter out of my way, some even starting to run, and I see others begin pulling out phones.

            Gotta love the twenty first century.

            As I’m walking up the steps, I hear yells from down the street. I don’t have to look to know what’s happened.

            Steve and Sam have left the vehicle. Sam will have his wings out in all their glory, and Steve has his shield without the star. I bet plenty of camera phones are turning to them right now, and they’ll be getting the message out as much as they can.

            Just in case that doesn’t work, I’m playing the bad guy.

            I lower the rifle from my shoulder as I step into the bank, eyes immediately finding the two security guards. Wait. How are those even security guards? They’re not armed.

            Huh. Future reference—bank guards in Canada aren’t armed.

            Whatever. I shoot the first with the plasma rifle on low, sending him flying three metres back against a wall with a thud, and people inside start screaming. The second has spun around, grabbing her radio, and I hit her in her stomach. She lifts off the floor, twisting before falling unconscious on her side.

            I fire again at the ceiling, then roar as loud as I can, “GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!” Some people almost drop flat, like someone’s cut their strings. Others are more hesitant to do so, staring at me like they’re afraid they’re about to be shot. They will be if they don’t move faster.

            Slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I pull the paper out of my pocket. Unfolding it, I hold it above my head with both hands, pointing it at the nearest security camera.

            Maybe MODOK can get into military grids, and maybe he can play with other country’s drones like a kid who’s gotten into the toy chest. But there’s one institution that cares more about their data security than the military: financial institutions. After all, money’s the real power in the world these days. Geopolitical lines don’t mean a whole hell of a lot. We’re betting on the largest bank in Canada having the best security system that we could find on such short notice.

            Once SHIELD gets notice that Sam and Steve have been spotted on the street, they’re going to search every camera they can get their hands on, looking for nearby disturbances. Maybe MODOK gets to this first, or maybe he’s going to be busy trying to keep two dozen people from uploading video of Falcon and Captain America to YouTube. I think our odds are good that SHIELD gets the message before he does.

            So I hold up my piece of paper, turning to the next camera. I’ve written on it in large black letters:

 

STARK

AIM—MODOK

ATTACK IMMINENT

IN USA

HELP

 

            If he doesn’t get that before MODOK, then Steve’s really overestimated him. I’m relying on his opinion of the man. Personally, I try not to think about Stark much.

            Once I’ve spun in a circle, showing the message to every camera, I shove it back in my pocket and run. I’ve been in the bank for all of thirty seconds.

            By this point, the crowd is almost entirely focused on Sam and Steve down the road. Traffic has stalled, so I walk up to the first car I find, which is a Honda Civic that looks new and shiny and silver. It kind of reminds me of my new arm.

            The driver’s craning his neck, trying to look ahead to see what all the fuss is about. I punch a hole through his passenger window. As he yells, “Jesus!” I open the door and slip inside.

            With the weapon pointed directly at his face, which would turn his brain to jelly at this range, I command, “Get out of the car.”

            He scrambles out of the vehicle, tripping as he flees.

            I shift across into the driver’s seat, reaching over to close the door. I fire one final time out the passenger window, and the blast destroys the bus stop. Unintentional, but that was the direction the hole was already in.

            The shot is Steve and Sam’s signal to leave. As I back up the car, then drive it right up onto the sidewalk to turn it around, I see them in the rear-view mirror, shooting up into the air. Steve’s probably not feeling too dignified right now, being held up by Sam under the armpits. I do feel a perverse sense of satisfaction over the visual I’m sure is happening. I’ll have to check it out later on the news.

            I hear the van explode. Steve didn’t know about that part, but Sam and I agreed that it was for the best. I don’t really like leaving evidence. It’s ingrained.

            Pulling off onto the road, I reach out with the rifle to poke out the rest of the glass. It’ll already look plenty suspicious, a guy driving with the window down in February, but less suspicious than a window with a big hole in it. I leave the mask on, though. I guess it’s a comfort thing.

That wasn’t so bad. Steve will be proud. I didn’t kill anyone or anything. The one guard might have a concussion and the other might have busted an organ, but they should have been armed if they wanted at least a fighting chance. Bank guards without guns. This place is ripe for the picking.

            I hit the 99 pretty quickly, not breaking any speed limits, but certainly being an offensive driver. I weave in and out, leap frogging vehicles one after another, always cognizant of the possibility of sirens. I wonder how many times this city sees high speed chases. Probably not often. Even then, the cause is probably drugs.

            I enter the park, and continue my lane jumping. This road is three lanes, and I’m on the side with two of them. That’s for the best, otherwise people would start getting injured.

            It’s nice here. The road is lined with tall, tall trees. All of a sudden I’m cut off from the rest of the city. Can’t even see the mountains. It’s just the road, and the trees, and me in a stolen car laying on the horn as I veer from lane to lane, making my escape.

            I think about Central Park when we were kids. There weren’t trees like this—these are more like the ones you’ll see in Russia. What are these, poplars? We got out to the big park once or twice in the ‘20s, but not more than that, because it’s not like there was ever much cause for us to go to Manhattan. And once it hit the ‘30s, our mothers were worried about us mingling with the homeless guys camped out there. Not that either of us were ever too keen to cross the bridge anyway.

            Wonder what it would be like to spend a day in the park. For no reason. Just because I could.

            Now there’s the sirens. One good reason to have the window open in winter, even though it’s so mild here that I practically expect the trees to burst into flowers.

            Lion’s Gate Bridge. I have to get to the bridge. I can’t be far now.

            If MODOK’s on his game, I expect he’s got cops waiting for me on the other side, not just following me. They’ll let as many civilians through as they can before cordoning it off. He’ll have given them the make and model of the vehicle, though. I know I’m the one he needs to separate from the herd. Of the three of our merry band, I’m the least known quantity.  

            I glance at the clock on the dashboard. 15:27. Okay, enough of this kid glove bullshit.

            I crank the car to full speed, and swing out into the oncoming lane to make my way around the red hatchback in front of me. I glance over as I pass that vehicle. There’s a kid pressed against the window, staring at me, as his mother automatically moves to the right with a gasp, smashing into the car in the next lane.

            Veering back in front of them, I eye my next target: two almost identical blue sedans that are basically side by side. I’ve got a whole string of traffic coming at me from the opposite direction, so I can’t go left again.

            Well, when you can’t go left, and you can’t go right, only one way: forward.

            Speeding up again, I come up behind the one on the right—a Toyota. I give the bumper a friendly nudge, which sends it inching towards the side of the road. The Ford on the left reacts like most people would to an accident—it starts to move in the opposite direction. Before the driver can course correct, away from oncoming traffic, I put my foot flat on the gas, and force my way through the two vehicles.

            The Toyota jumps up on the sidewalk, and the Ford smashes into a pickup that peels it off my side. The Civic doesn’t seem any worse for wear.

            The park is peeling aside, revealing the city once more, and I see a suspension bridge in the near distance. There’s two pillars on either side of the entry. They’re guarded by two cement lions that gaze imperiously forward.

            Traffic has disappeared on the other side of the road, and the sirens behind me are getting awfully loud. 15:29.

            Come on. Just a little further.

            I see the blue and red lights waiting for me at the halfway point on the bridge. Cutting it close. That’s fine. I always meet my deadlines.

            I glance in the rear-view. I haven’t got any other cars or trucks behind me now. Just squad cars closing in.

            Fine. This is as good a place as any.

            Slamming on the brakes, I turn off the car. Honda Civic. I’ll have to keep that in mind for the future. Picking up the rifle, I turn it on high, then set the timer.

            Before the cars behind me can stop, I step out of the car, hands above my head. Nice view. Bay to the west, rolling hills and the open ocean and hazy land formations in the distance. Too bad I’ll probably never be able to return.

            I take a deep breath, watching to see how large my radius is. The cars that were behind me have pulled back to nine metres. The ones on the northern side of the bridge are around ten metres. All of a sudden, there’s about seven guns pointed at me.

            Only seven? This country. I could be emperor, if I had the ambition.

            Someone’s yelling at me to put my hands on my head. I just keep them in the air, and holler back, “You want to stay about twelve meters from this car. When it blows, it’s going to put a hole in the bridge.”

            “Put your hands on your head, and—“

            Raising my voice, I shout, “This car is going to _explode_ and take all of us with it in _thirty seconds_! Move—the fuck—back!”

            The woman who looks like she’s in charge takes about two seconds, then lifts her radio to her mouth, “All units, retreat to a distance of twelve meters. Bomb squad to—“

            Incoming, I hear a little electric whine. 15:30.

            Judging the rate of speed by the sound of the engines, I flip onto the hood and roll onto the roof of the car. Pushing myself up with both my arms and my feet, I leap into the air as high as I can, reaching upwards. For one moment, he blots out the sun.

            Then Sam catches my arm.

            He yanks me up, and as we soar away from the bridge, I swing myself upwards. I wrap my arms and legs around him tightly.

            “What in the hell are _you_ doing?” he yells over the wind, and I look at the bridge over his shoulder, as the police look at us in shock. The car goes up in blue flame, and the shockwave sends all the cops backwards.

            “You control this thing by hand grips, right?” I ask, watching a small hole open in the bridge, debris plummeting towards the water. Farewell, Civic.

            “Yes!”

            “Then why would I take away half of your primary means of control?”

            He goes higher, northeast. “I didn’t intend to have the Winter Soldier spider monkey me!”

            “You know,” I say, taking in the magnificent view of water and mountains and the things that humans have made, “a better method of weight distribution would be my legs over your shoulders and my arms around your waist—“

            “You do know that _I_ know you’ll survive a drop from this height, remember?”

            I snort, and look over his shoulder. He is so carelessly confident in the air, moving with the air currents, rising and falling, as easily as I hold a gun. I’ve never done anything like this before. To Sam, this is like walking.

            “Jesus, Sam,” I say, impressed, “look at what you can do.”

            He swoops down, sending us spinning twice, and I have to force my metal hand not to grip him tighter. If my old arm was able to destroy his wings, this one would definitely be able to.

            Sam says, “Are you ever gonna call me Pigeon again?”

            He brings us so low to the water that I can almost see our reflection in it, and I say, “Let me think about that one.” Then I shake my head, and finish, “Falcon.”

            “Damn right,” he says, satisfied, and brings us onto the shore.

            We come down on the land, near a house. I jump off of Sam, and he bends over for a second to catch his breath, snapping his goggles onto his forehead. I can see a jeep parked out back. “Marine Drive, right?” I check.

            “You bet.”

            “Cap okay?”

            “In his exit vehicle on the way to the rendezvous.” Sam straightens, and says, “The both of you need to lose some weight, if we’re ever gonna do this again.”

            “Or maybe you just need to keep lifting, Pigeon.”

            “Well, that lasted as long as I expected.” But he grins, pulling his goggles back down. “See you in twenty five.”

            I nod, and I admit, I take a second to watch how he shoots into the air. That really is a hell of a  thing.

            I’m on the road a minute later. The jeep is disgusting. The floor is littered with fast food wrappers, and it smells like cigarette smoke. If Steve had taken this one, he would have vomited. The kid is such a neat freak.

            MODOK’s got eyes on me, I’m sure he does, but it’s going to be a lot harder to muster as many cops out here in the far northeast of the city, where it’s less city and more waterside suburb. It’s entirely possible that he’s too busy to worry about me either. I imagine he’s having to work pretty goddamn hard to punch through the security system that bank has in place.

            Stark had better come through. SHIELD had better come through. We can only do so much from here, with the resources we’ve got. He’s the one with the keys to the kingdom. If he can’t stop MODOK, I’m not sure how we’re supposed to. My specialty is assassination, not _preventing_ terrorist attacks.

            I’m still wearing the mask. I didn’t realize. Oh well. I like my mask. It satisfies me. I put my hood up, just in case anyone pulls up beside me.

            I drive steadily along the road, obeying all the traffic laws. Not giving anyone a reason to notice me. It’s all rich people in houses behind hedges out here anyways. They’re the only ones who can afford to live so close to the water. It’s not like they’re out on the road looking for trouble.

            I’ll meet Steve and Sam at the exit point in Cypress Provincial Park. There’s a truck waiting for us that has all the gear in it. The plates have already been changed out. We’ll head north, then east. Deeper into the province, deeper into the mountains. Fewer people, fewer opportunities to be recognized.

            We’ll be all over the news, so I’ll be the one who’ll have to do most of the interacting with people. That’ll drive Sam and Steve crazy. There’s plenty of advantages to wearing a mask. They’ll be the most famous faces in the news come sundown. I’ll just be an anonymous person. I can fake that.

            I keep my eyes moving between the mirrors and the two lane road, the window lowered an inch so I can listen for sirens. I seem to be in the clear, but there’s a reason why I think of it as ‘seem to be.’ Sam was right—it’s dangerous to get complacent. Never assume the day is won until you’re in your own bed and the enemy’s head is on a pike somewhere.

            To distract myself from the toxic idea that we’ve won, I think about what comes after. If there isn’t a MODOK to fight, what then? Where do we go? What do we do?

            Sam won’t be able to hide forever. He’s too sane for that. Steve and I—we’re that special kind of crazy. We’ve spent so long at war that we don’t know how to live without it. If we can keep finding battles, missions, then we might stay busy enough not to face reality, but if there isn’t—if there’s just time—what the hell happens then?

            Just the idea gives me the same itchy uncertainty that sent me running into cryo.

            Can we find someone who’d put me into cryo? I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to just live through the years like a real person does. What would I do with all that time?

            There’s always a battle. Just got to figure out how to get there.

            I take the road along the coast, now traveling due north. There’s always a battle, and I’m always a soldier. That’s how it’ll be. And everything will be fine. As fine as it ever is, though my bar is admittedly quite low.

            15:54, and the sun is moving lower in the sky. The sun probably sets here in about an hour, and at least then we’ll have the cover of darkness.

            I recognize the turn off. I take the corner swiftly, moving into the trees, and up the hill.

            About two minutes later, I see Steve and Sam waiting for me in the truck. Steve’s already taken shotgun. Sam lifts his arm out the window to wave, and I see his face fall.

            My eyes flick up to the rear-view mirror.

            A police car has emerged from the trees. Don’t know where it came from, don’t know how long it’s been there. All I know is that there’s an obstacle between my team and the exit.

            Slamming on the brakes, I back the jeep up a few meters, then spin it around, flooring it back down the narrow gravel road.

            The car slows down, braking, trying to cut us off. It’s not going to work. The truck’s four wheel drive; it’ll get us out. I don’t see anyone else. It’s just two guys in a car.

            They are the only obstacle between my team and the exit.

            I stop the jeep, grabbing the Glock out of my pocket as both officers throw open their doors. They move almost as if through water, or maybe it’s just how I see the world when this happens. They’re drawing their weapons, the driver opening his mouth.

            I kill them both before Steve’s even finished screaming, “Bucky, _NO!_ ”


	23. Augsberg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks--hold up a second.  
> This was quite easily the hardest chapter to write for this story, and I imagine it will be the toughest to read. It came together when I was thinking about what Steve says at the start of Winter Soldier, about how they made compromises in the war that kept them up at night, but they did it so people could be free. What that said to me was that he had at least one incident in his past that still haunted him, and it also told me that it was probably part of his pattern of sacrificing a smaller number to preserve the majority.  
> Then after reading the book The Winter Soldier, this scene coalesced pretty easily. Does a part of me wish Steve would make a different choice and do something miraculous? God yes. But I think that given how mission oriented he was, how willing he's proven over the course of the movies to play the numbers game, I do think he would have made this terrible decision, knowing the importance of their next target.  
> So--let's all take a collective breath, and see how bad it can get.

_I don’t much like the cold, but that’s beside the point._

_I’m lying on my stomach, flat on the snow, in enemy territory, all by myself._

_Thank God. A few minutes alone._

_Not that the guys aren’t great. The guys are all aces, every one of them. I’d die for any one of them, and I’ve killed for every single one. The day this war ends, Dugan and I have a deal to go back to that same place where Steve roped us into his band of merry men, and we’re going to close the place down. “It’ll be the living definition of debauchery, Buck,” he said to me with a grin, tipping his hat down over his face._

_The thing is, though, they’re always around. We’re a unit, and that’s how wars are won. Not by individuals, but by armies. I love my unit, I love my guys—but Christ, a fella needs some time on his own occasionally._

_So that’s why I guess I’m enjoying watching that know-nothing black-masked bastard in the guard tower._

_I was sent out before everyone else. Captain’s orders. I usually go first, to stake the place out. I’m the quietest one on the unit, which amuses Steve to no end. Quiet at least when I’m working._

_Well, I guess I’m quiet everywhere. At least, I don’t talk as much as I used to. I tell stories with the guys, I rib them, I talk about gals I knew back home—I do what I’m supposed to._

_Only it’s like something in me has gone dark after HYDRA._

_It’s not all of me. It’s like seeing all the bulbs lit up on 42 nd, and then there’s just no missing the one that’s bust. It’s nothing, it’s just one bulb, but the fact that it’s only one out of so many makes it seem so much more—wrong. _

_Steve’s noticed. Of course he has, but he’s the only one who knew me before. I’d seen Dugan before—how can you not with that goddamn hat—and Jones, because you don’t see a lot of Negroes around where I was stationed, but I hadn’t talked to them. Steve said one night, “You’re not all that chatty today, are you, Buck,” and I understood that it meant all the days._

_I just shrugged and said, “You’ve seen what the war’s like. Don’t really feel chatty.”_

_And that was it. Steve’s never been one to dig too deep into the dark places, at least not when it comes to me. We’ve always had things we never talked about. This ain’t the first._

_I’ve got my Springfield nestled tight against my shoulder, my eye on the sight. There’s a white blanket covering me, and a few branches on top of that. I’ve been here about a half hour, and no one’s noticed me yet, so I suppose I’m doing pretty well._

_The base is a big solid fortress. It’s doesn’t look quite real. It looks like something out of one of the books I used to love. After a couple of months of HYDRA 24/7, though, I’m getting used to the harsh, cold lines, the too-much of everything they do. Their uniforms are too black, their buildings are too clean, their evil is too cut and dry._

_I fucking hate HYDRA._

_There’s four guard towers, one at each corner. I’m closest to the guy on the southwest corner, up on a hill, hidden beneath some trees. There’s two guys at the front doors, and a whole slew of the black uniformed krauts in front among the vehicles and equipment. All in all, I count twenty three soldiers outside of the fortress. God only knows how many are inside._

_Southwest is walking back and forth, his weapon cradled in his arms. His face is covered with the usual mask. It makes them so much easier to pick off. I don’t even have to see their faces. Just a little spray of blood, and they fall over._

_He stops, and lifts a gloved hand to his mouth, bending slightly. He’s yawning. Well, what do you know? I was starting to think that maybe they were all robots under there._

_I take a look at Southeast. He’s looking over at Southwest, shaking his head. Yeah. That’s right. Dissension in the ranks. Next they’ll be tearing each other apart._

_I hear the little click in my ear. I tilt my head, wrapping my finger around the trigger._

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Southwest jerks back, little spurt from his head as I fill it with daylight, and I’m already swinging my Springfield to the right, getting a bead on Southeast. He’s lifting his weapon towards the road as the engines get louder. I drill him too, single shot to the helmet._

_Lifting my head from the rifle a moment, I look at the scene below. They’re starting to panic a little. Nothing like sniper fire to make a guy consider pissing his drawers. Not even our own guys like snipers. They look at us like we’re sneaky, like we’re somehow not playing fair._

_Let me tell them what it’s like to have HYDRA set your blood on fire, then we can talk about fighting fair._

_Steve’s the first one to emerge from the trees, because of course he is. His body finally fits his intentions. He’s the first in, every time, nothing between him and bullets except that shield. He even came up with the design for the goofy thing, and I love America as much as the next guy, but it’s the closest a man can come to painting a target on himself. Thank God for Howard Stark, that’s all I can say._

_He’s about to fling his shield, and I look down through the sight, finding the first man who looks like he’s going to take a shot. I get him through the throat, because the bastard insists on moving, and then I see the blur of blue and red. Raising my head, I watch the shield bounce off three guys, then make its way almost magically back into Steve’s hand._

_Dugan’s through right after him on a motorcycle, screaming, “Wahoo!” like an idiot, and I can’t help but grin. He skids to a stop and fires off a rifle, and he might be ridiculous, but I fucking love that ridiculous mick._

_The other guys are right behind. Morita starts spraying bullets from his Greaser like he’s got an endless supply. Morita, I get. We’ve got the same dark sense of humor, and neither of us exactly weep into our pillows about how many guys we’ve killed. Falsworth, he’s a good guy, but I swear to God, I hear one more poised speech about the horrors of war and I’ll smack that stupid beret off his head._

_I leave my position on the hill, shedding the blanket and the snow, and start running down towards the fight. I don’t think about this part. When I’ve left my position, and I’m in the open. The only thing protecting me is my Springfield and my blue peacoat. That’s not a whole hell of a lot._

_Still a lot better than Steve, though—the outfit. I mean, Mother Mary and Joseph, the outfit._

_He turns to me as I reach the bottom of the hill, and even with that goofy cowl, I see his exasperation. “Where’s your helmet?” he says._

_Slowing my step, I shrug. “How many times I gotta tell ya? I’m a sniper. You wear a helmet, it gives you away in the field.”_

_There’s an explosion near the door, and Steve says, “Yeah, but—“_

_“Move,” I say, and he spins. We work as a single unit, him throwing his shield and me lifting my Springfield. The shield_ thunks _loudly off the guy on the left, sending him flying, and my rifle sends a bullet right through the goggles in the other man’s helmet._

_Steve catches his shield, and I say, “How much did a helmet do for that guy?”_

_“You still need one,” he says, jogging away._

_“So do you!” I yell after him. “A real one that maybe doesn’t have wings painted on it!” Gunfire comes from the roof, and I raise my rifle, finding them quickly and dispatching them even faster._

_I’m a dead shot with this weapon. Or any gun. I was pretty decent before. In Africa, once the higher ups saw how good I was with the Springfield, I got a few days training, but that was about the extent of it, because the US Army is great at plenty, but training snipers isn’t on that list. I killed ten men in Tunisia, which is a hell of a lot more than most of the guys I served with. I’m not a moron. I know most of the guys over here have never even shot their guns. It was hard at first, to look through the sight and take a man’s life, but it just became something I had to do._

_After HYDRA took me? I am much, much better at all of this._

_I can stay still for longer, I can focus more. I can kill as many men in a one hour mission as I did in all the weeks we were stationed in Tunisia, and not bat an eye._

_Being mad at HYDRA makes a lot of things easier._

_When we’ve taken the front, and the door is blown open, Steve says, “Buck, Morita, I want you to check out the outside, see if there’s an airstrip concealed like the last base. If we can get Howard in closer than before, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”_

_“Sure, Cap,” I say, and tap Morita on the arm. We walk away from the others, me with my rifle pointed down, him with his Greaser back against his shoulder. “James.”_

_“James,” he replies._

_Running joke. You get a lot of those when you’re with the same guys every moment of the day while you’re spending most of those days getting shot at._

_“What does this look like to you?” he asks, glancing up the sleek sides of the building._

_“A ziggurat.”_

_He looks up at me, unimpressed. “A what now?”_

_“Ziggurat. Monumental architecture. From the Middle East.”_

_“Well. Aren’t you educated.”_

_“Twelve years of New York City’s finest public schools, and two years of art school, James. Say, do they even go past sixth grade out there in Fresno?”_

_“That fancy art school degree you got there, James—get you in much with the fellas?” He snaps his fingers and corrects himself, “Dames! I meant dames.”_

_I grin, but pull up abruptly. I heard something from the woods. Morita’s no zombie, he finds cover against the building, readying his gun._

_I stand completely still, scanning the treeline for any movement. I can be still. I can be so, so still._

_The man swings out from the tree, and I put a bullet through his forehead, but not before the grenade has left his hand. And I’ve already got the gun, and the grenade’s coming at me._

_Before I can even think about it, I’ve shot the grenade._

_The blast throws me back hard, lifting me off my feet. I hit the wall so hard my teeth rattle. Briefly, I see stars. Dropping to the snow, I lay on my stomach a second, ears ringing like church bells._

_“Ow,” I mutter._

_Someone’s got my arm. “Jesus, does Brooklyn just make ‘em crazy?”_

_Morita, right. “You bet, pal. Crazy and handsome. What we’re known for around the world.” I get to my feet, shaking myself off, and pick up my rifle. “Shit. Hope old faithful didn’t take too much damage.”_

_“Hey!” Morita barks, and I look over at him. He’s giving me a hard gaze. “Forget about the rifle for a goddamn second. What about your head?”_

_Shrugging, I say, “What about my head?”_

_He lifts his brows. “Oh, I don’t know, because you almost just cracked it open like an egg.”_

_“Morita, I’ve already got one mother. Don’t need you lining up to be a second.” I put in new ammunition, just in case the old got wet. Once I’m bolted, I nod. “Onward, Christian soldier. Or whatever it is you worship. What, is it like trees or something?”_

_Morita rolls his eyes, and says, “We’re Methodists, asshole,” and we keep walking._

_I give my head another light shake, just to make sure I’m all there. Got lucky, is all. I’ve seen Steve take a hit like that and just walk it off, but yeah, I’m merely a mortal man, and I should have just broken my neck. Angle must have been perfect for me to not die._

_I’ll probably really feel it tonight. Right now I’m just all adrenaline, and waiting to shoot the next guy dumb enough to come at me._

_We get to the back of the building, both of us silent. I signal Morita that I’ll look, and he nods, putting his back to the wall. I press flush against it, then duck my head around the corner._

_Pulling back, I whisper to him, “Three guys loading the truck, and a driver. I’ll take the driver.”_

_He nods, a single jut of the chin. I mouth ‘one, two,’ and on three we jump out. I go down on my knees, taking the driver, while Morita sprays the other three with ammo. Once they fall, he shoulders his devil’s piano again, calm as anything._

_As I get back on my feet, I glance up at the guard towers. The gentlemen who were on the north end have absconded. That’s probably a good call on their part. Most of their buddies have terminal cases of lead poisoning at this point._

_“They’re supposed to be running a movie tonight,” Morita says as we cross the yard._

_“Oh yeah?” I reply, eyes scanning for more men. “Which one?”_

_“_ Girl Crazy _.”_

_“Hey, is that the one with Judy Garland?”_

_“Think so.”_

_“Aw, Steve’ll be all over that.” I grin crookedly. “You see how he gets for brunettes with curly hair.”_

_Morita snorts, and says, “Somehow, I think Peggy Carter could take Judy in a fight.”_

_“God, picture_ that _.”_

_“I would, but I don’t think I’d be able to walk back to the plane.”_

_I laugh a little, but I’m looking into the trees. After a second, I say, “Hey James?”_

_“Yeah, James?”_

_I gesture with my head. “What do you think that is?”_

_There’s something in the trees. It doesn’t look like a building, exactly. But there’s something._

_“Dunno.”_

_We glance at each other, telegraphing the same thought,_ wait for Captain’s orders _? Then both of us roll our eyes and set off into the woods._

_Whatever it is has been hidden from the aerial photography by the tree cover, but there’s definitely something out there. I can see barbed wire on top. What—is it an animal pen or something? What the hell have they—_

_Morita and I both stop at the same time. I stare._

_When he speaks, his voice is hollow. “Bucky.”_

_“Go get the Captain,” I say._

_Morita doesn’t need to be told twice. He turns and beats his feet. So I’m left alone with all the people leaning against the chain link and barbed wire fence._

_They barely look like people. Oh my God, how can they still be alive? They’re in uniforms—prison uniforms, I guess, but none of them fit because the people are so frail and the clothes are supposed to fit a regular sized person._

_They’re not speaking or moving. They’re just pressed up against the fence, gazing out at me with dozens of pairs of empty eyes._

_I sling my rifle over my shoulder, and walk the last forty feet through the snow. Fingers are starting to reach out through the fence, and I’m trying to get an idea of how many there are—how many could there possibly be? Jesus Christ, is this a HYDRA experiment? Are they labourers? They can’t be, they couldn’t possibly work like this, they can’t—_

_I’m touching hands, and people are starting to cry. They’re outside in the snow, some of them in their bare feet, and they’re all beginning to move now. Everyone is looking at me, everyone is trying to get a touch of my hand, and I’m trying to touch as many as I can—_

_How can this be real? How can the world live with all this horror?_

_We have to get them out of here. Jesus, we have to get these people out of here and—_

_Oh._

_Oh God._

_No._

_No, please, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._

_I step away from them, this terrible cavernous thing opening in my stomach. This can’t be what happens. It can’t be._

_He’s the hero. I’m the bad guy. I’ve always been the bad guy for him._

_I don’t want to be this time. I can’t. No one can ask that I do it this time._

_But I have to._

_They’re wailing now, reaching for me, but I can’t touch them again. If I do, it won’t matter what I know for a certainty. I won’t be able to help myself. We all want to be the hero. This time I can’t be the hero._

_I hear the other guys coming through the woods, and I tear myself away from the faces and turn my back on them. I run to meet the men._

_Steve’s wide eyed, and barrelling forward. “Jesus,” he says, and it’s so rare that I hear him take the lord’s name in vain that I know I’m going to need a bazooka to stop him._

_“Steve,” I say, “don’t—“_

_“We’ve got to get these people out of here,” he says to Dugan. The only other ones with them are Jones and Morita. Falsworth and Dernier must still be setting the charges._

_“Steve, stop,” I say, stumbling backwards before him._

_“Let’s get the lock, then we’ll—“_

_“Steve!” I shout at him._

_“Bucky!” he says back, barely seeing me. He’s pulling off his shield, going right for the front gate and the massive padlock on it._

_“You can’t let them out—“_

_“The hell I can’t—“_

_“And then what?” He’s ignoring me. He’s grabbing his shield, getting ready to slam it down and break the lock._

_God forgive me._

_I step up and slap him as hard as I can across the face._

_The sound of the slap echoes in the woods. I don’t hear anything else. I see the faces of the men, going even more shocked than they were a second before._

_Steve’s head has snapped to the side. I see the colour flood into his face, and he turns his eyes slowly back to mine. I understand what I’ve done. I know I’m not dealing with Steve right now._

_Standing between him and the gate, I say evenly, “Captain. We cannot rescue these people. We are not equipped.”_

_“We—“_

_“Are a strike team of seven men dedicated to the elimination of HYDRA. We are in Germany, and we are a long,_ long _way from friendly territory, sir. We have no way of transporting these people to safety without compromising our mission. There’s maybe a thousand men standing behind me. If we don’t make it to safety and make our next target in the Alps, we could lose the_ planet _. The mission takes precedence.”_

_“Jesus Christ!” yelps Morita. “We can’t just leave them here—“_

_“We can and we will. We’ll unlock the gates and they can make their way from here, but we can’t do anything else for them.”_

_Morita waves back over his shoulder. “Stark—“_

_“Is going to be at our rendezvous in twenty five minutes. If we’re not there, he’ll die. Howard Stark is integral to the war effort. He cannot be sacrificed. I’m sorry, Captain, we have to go.”_

_“The plane, we could put them—“_

_“The plane seats ten,” I reply. “We could get on maybe ten more on top of that, but that would mean us staying behind. And we’re not going to do that.”_

_Steve says, “Yes we—“_

_“No, Captain, we are not. There are two men our side needs to win this war. You and Howard Stark. We can’t risk Howard’s life, and we can’t just stay in Germany so twenty people can maybe—maybe—make it to safety. We already have our next target, and you know how important it is. I know that it would feel good right now to do what we can for these people, but that means that millions die instead. And the odds of us doing these people a lick of good is slim to none. We open up the gates, we blow the fortress, we return to base to report to Phillips, and he’ll figure out what to do about it. No one has to like it, sir. But that’s what we’re going to do. We have somewhere to be that outweighs even this. You know that.”_

_Steve is looking at me like he’s never seen me before. I don’t blame him. I can’t stomach the words coming out of my mouth, and I’m sure that this moment will be the one they play for me over and over again when I reach hell, but I have one mission, I’ve only ever had one mission my whole life, and that is to keep Steve Rogers safe._

_Dugan leans closer to Steve and murmurs, “Captain.” Steve tilts his head slightly towards him. “We gotta go.”_

_Jones is watching the people with impenetrable brown eyes. They’re beginning to howl. They can tell what we’re going to do._

_Morita’s glancing between all of us, like we’re monsters, and in this moment we are. “Jesus Christ, we’re not leaving them here—“_

_“We can fit thirteen on the plane,” says Steve._

_“Sure,” I say. “Which ones?” He recoils, and I raise my shoulders. “Which ones, Steve?” I whisper._

_He sucks in a shallow breath, blinking a few times. It’s so rare that I see him uncertain about anything these days. I don’t know if anyone could be certain about this._

_Then his eyes go cold, and he says, “Jones?”_

_“Yeah, Cap.”_

_“Tell them in German that I’m going to open the gate. The first thirteen who make it to the truck are coming with us. The rest need to get away from the base, because it’s about to explode.”_

_Jones follows orders without questioning them. I close my eyes for a second as the wails turn to horror and grief. We brought them hope, and now we’re taking it away._

_When Jones is done, Steve strides forward, and slams his shield down so hard that the gates explode._

_“Move out,” he says, and I hear the terrible sound of people scrambling, the sounds people make when it’s the last possible chance they have at life._

_Steve’s the first to walk away, and I follow._

_On the plane, I sit with a man curled in my lap. He can’t weigh more than Steve did before the war, only he’s my height. He has his head tucked against my shoulder, and I’m very gentle when I wrap my arms around him._

_He isn’t weeping like some of the others. Morita cried in the truck as we drove to the plane. The man next to him patted his leg. Humans…they fucking break your heart._

_I have my hand against my guy’s neck, keeping his head up. I feel his pulse under my fingers. His heart beat—how can a person be so close to death, and yet still have their heart beating?_

_I’ll never forgive myself for today. Not ever. I don’t know if anyone else will either. I don’t know what else we could have done—we’ve heard the rumors about these places, so I know that we couldn’t have taken them anywhere safe, sure as hell not in Germany. What could we have done? Flown in plane after plane and tried to evacuate? We’ve barely made it over the German border to the west, and that’s a long way away. There wouldn’t be the resources, and a thousand men wouldn’t be a priority, not to the brass. We weren’t equipped for this._

_It all feels like empty excuses. I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with myself._

_The plane comes down over the base. Howard’s been uncharacteristically quiet. We all have. Jones has been murmuring a little with his man, but that’s been it for hours. That and the crying._

_There are doctors waiting for us on the air strip. Stark radioed ahead. I’m closest to the door, because I was the last on, so I’m the first one to walk down the stairs. I can carry my man easily._

_As I pass him over, he lifts his hand, touching my cheek, and gives me a slight smile._

_I take a few steps away, and I watch each man being helped or carried off the plane. Morita storms away without a word. Dugan gives me a little pat on the chest as he walks off. He understands hard choices. Jones goes with the doctors and the men._

_“Sergeant Barnes.”_

_I stand at attention, looking through Steve the way I would a superior officer at boot camp. I could face a court martial. I hit a captain. Not just that, but Captain America. At the very least, I’m facing a hell of a lot of skin. “Yes sir.”_

_Steve’s pulled his cowl off, so I have to see his face when he says, “Until this day, I never thought I’d say these words. But I have never—not ever—been more disappointed in you my whole life.”_

_I’d have gladly taken the court martial over this._

_He shakes his head, looking away from me. He murmurs, “And I’ve never been more disgusted by myself.”_

_He walks away._

_I stay where I am a moment. I’m trembling._

_When I can’t take it anymore, I run behind the plane. I bend over, resting my hand on the wheel, and I puke my guts out._

_Those people. Jesus Christ. Those poor people._

_After I’ve spent about a minute retching, and I think I’m finished, a handkerchief is held in front of my face. I grab it, and look up._

_Stark says sympathetically, “Don’t beat yourself up too bad, Bucky.” He claps me on the shoulder, walking away. “I wouldn’t have even opened the gates.”_

_None of us is really interested in chow. Nonetheless, we’re sitting in the mess with plates in front of us. It’s better than trying to sleep._

_We’re not really sitting together. We’re spread across two tables. Morita’s as far from me as possible. Not sure if he’ll ever speak to me again._

_I stab my mashed potatoes, that might, on some small chance, actually have traces of real potatoes, and I think of the sound a crowd makes when they know almost all of them are going to die. I know what that sounds like now. I’ll always know._

_Steve’s not with us. He’s probably off with Peggy. She’ll console him. I could be bitter about that, but what? Did I think he was going to be mine forever? Steve’s grown up. He’s a Captain, and a hero, and I am just a welder from Plymouth Street who’s slowly losing his mind._

_“Switzerland next,” says Dugan._

_I glance up, as Falsworth says, “Mm,” to be polite._

_I see that Jones is looking at me. I drop my eyes, having another mouthful of mashed potatoes. I look up again._

_He’s still got his eyes on me._

_“Never been to Switzerland.” Morita suddenly slams his fork down, and my eyes jump away from Gabe’s. Dugan sighs, “Jim, c’mon—“_

_“What are we doing?” says Morita. “What the hell are we doing, just—just sitting here—“_

_“What else are we gonna do about it now, huh?”_

_“We should have done something while we were there.”_

_Dugan shrugs, and says, “Yeah, well, we didn’t, and there’s no fixing that.”_

_“No, you’re goddamn right there’s no fixing it!”_

_“Jim—Jesus, calm down—it’s not like—“_

_“Not like what, huh?” he yells. “Not like what? Where the hell do you think my family is right now?”_

_We don’t talk about that. We don’t ever talk about that._

_Dugan says, “Jim, it’s nothing like_ that _—“_

_Shoving himself away from the table, Morita shouts, “Real goddamn easy for you to say, when it’s not your house that got stolen, or your family behind fucking barbed wire!” He slaps his tray off the table, and leaves with his hands in fists. My guess he’s either drunk or beating the piss out of somebody by the end of the night._

_The other three go back to their plates without saying a word. Jones and I go back to looking at each other. We haven’t done this before. I’m kind of surprised, actually. I see the question, and after chewing a few times, I look down at my plate and nod slightly._

_I hear a plate push back. “I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I think I’m done for the night.”_

_“No kidding,” says Dugan. “Night, Gabe.”_

_I keep eating until he’s gone, then say, “Calling it. Night guys.”_

_Picking up my tray, I glance over as Dugan says, “Buck?” He fixes his eyes on me. “You kept him safe. You did your job.” I shrug, and he snorts. “Bucky Barnes. The guy who_ hit _Captain America.”_

_With a roll of the eyes, I reply, “Let’s make sure they leave that part out of the history books, okay fellas?” I dump my tray, then walk out into the night._

_Fastening my coat, I look around. It’s close to midnight, so not many people left. I spot Gabe leaning against some crates. Slipping my hands into my pockets, I follow him at a distance._

_The guy must be nuts. He goes into the supply shed. He’s got a set on him, I’ll give him that much._

_Well, fuck it. What are they going to do? 4F me now? After today, I don’t know that I’d care._

_I slide through the door, my hands automatically going to my hair. When I do, it’s actually kind of funny. Haven’t really cared much about my hair since I came overseas. Some things just don’t change, apparently._

_I walk past the racks and shelves, until I find him sitting on a barrel. He gives me a little smile, and I find myself chuckling._

_“You must be crazy, soldier,” I say, and it sounds like my real voice. Not the voice of a man who’s been at war for years. I sound like Bucky Barnes, who could have any girl or guy he wanted, if he just smiled._

_“I could accuse you of the same thing.”_

_He has the softest hint of a southern accent. Where’s he from again? Georgia? I lean against one of the shelves. “I’ve never been with a Negro before.”_

_He replies, “I’ve never been with a sergeant before.”_

_I grin, dropping my head._

_He stands, and walks over to me. My grin disappears, and I’m chewing my lip. It’s been a long time. “Hell of a day, wasn’t it,” he says._

_I nod. “Hell of a day,” I murmur._

_His thumb rubs over my cheekbone, and I feel my face start to crumple. He stops, and I swallow. I force down whatever else I’m feeling. Taking him by the front of his jacket, I pull him closer. It’s all quiet around us. It’s like there’s not another soul on earth._

_Bending my head forward, I kiss him gently on the mouth. He takes me around the waist, a hand sliding up my back. I’m slow and careful and he’s the same with me._

_When I pull back an inch, he asks, “So this is how you want it?”_

_I shake my head, leaning against him._

_He tilts my chin up. “How do you want it?”_

_I whisper, “Hurt me. I don’t even want them to be able to find my bones.”_

_When I come into the tent an hour later, Steve’s on his bed. Somehow, he’s neat and clean and even wearing a white t-shirt that doesn’t look like it’s ever been worn before. He glances up when I come in. “Hey.”_

_“Hey.” I leave everything on. My jacket, my muddy boots. I don’t care. I fall down on my cot, and don’t quite get a hand over my mouth to stifle my cry._

_A few seconds go by, and Steve asks, “You injured?”_

_My cheeks turn red, but thankfully my back is to him. “Grenade threw me against a wall,” I cover. “Jim can tell you all about it if he ever acknowledges my existence again.”_

_“You need to see a doctor?”_

_“No. I’m fine.” I push my hands under my pillow. To make it hurt more, I ask, “Peggy make you feel better?”_

_I hear him close his book. “Bucky.”_

_I can hear in his voice that he wants to talk, but he doesn’t know what to say. “Going to sleep, Cap,” I reply._

_After all, I think he said what he needed to earlier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me, folks? Yeah, that was pretty goddamn awful.  
> How about we all go read a modern AU where Steve and Bucky meet in a coffee shop or something. I think we all deserve some fluff after this.


	24. Bucky Barnes

The door slams behind us and Steve’s got me by the collar and he’s shoving me back against the wall.

            “What _was_ that?” he shouts in my face.

            This is new. Steve’s never yelled at me when he was this size. I think the last time he really tried to get in my face, he weighed less than half of what I do now. I wasn’t aware that this version of Steve could yell. He’s got me pinned, and I go pliant.

            Steve shakes me, demanding, “What—was that? What did you do? What in the hell did you just do?”

            Status.

            Team leader is unsatisfied with the asset’s conduct in the field. The asset thinks the team leader just needs to get this out of his system so that we can all try and get a decent night’s sleep.

            We’ve broken into a condemned old hotel in the mountains. The room has no light, and it smells like mice.

            Steve pushes me away, and puts his hands to the back of his neck, walking in circles. “Two cops. You killed two policemen. You _murdered_ them.”

            I saw a threat to the unit.

            “Why?” Steve asks desperately. “Why would you do that? There was no reason to kill them, you could have wounded them without even blinking—do you understand that it’s wrong? Do you even understand that what you did is wrong?”

            Wrong is a subjective term. The sooner he admits that, the easier it will be for all of us to stay alive. I gaze at the floor, unblinking. I’ve been in situations where superiors needed to blow off some steam. I’m not worried or afraid. He’s predictable. I know how this ends.

            He walks away from me, his hands to his face. “Oh God,” he whispers. “What have I done? What have I done?”

            He’s reconsidering the past several years. Everyone told him I was a monster. I’m not the kind of person you save. I’m not even a person. He’s going over it all in his head.

            I sigh quietly.

            Steve drops his hands and walks back to me. “I’m sorry, did you have something to add to the conversation?” he says, close up in my space. “Anything you feel like adding?”

            Lifting my eyes to his, I show him in a single expression that I don’t regret anything I’ve done today. And he’s known me long enough to realize I mean it.

            Shaking his head, Steve falls away from me again. “God damn it. God, I’ve been so _stupid_!”

            At least we can agree on that.

            He kicks the moldy, half cratered bed, and the thing cracks. The legs give out and _flump_ it all goes on the floor. A scent of something rotten puffs out.

            “Everyone told me.” There it is. I knew it. “Jesus _Christ_!” If he had any hair, I imagine he’d be pulling it out right now. Steve turns back to me and says angrily, “What the hell are you?”

            I can take this. We all know I’ve had worse.

            “What is so broken in you that you think it’s fine to just shoot two police officers in the head?”

            Yeah, keep poking, Steve. This is definitely a fight you want me to finish.

            Furious, Steve orders, “Say something! Jesus Christ, I don’t even know who the hell you are!”

            That’s enough.

            Raising my brows, I reply, “Don’t be obtuse.”

            “Obtuse? Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me right now?”

            “I’m exactly who you wish I wasn’t, and I’m exactly who I was pretending not to be. We both know who that is.”

            “What, we’re gonna talk in riddles now?”

            “I’m Bucky Barnes.”

            Steve’s nostrils flare, he’s so upset. “The hell you are. I don’t know who you are or what you are, but you are not—“

            “Please,” I say, pushing myself off the wall, “you’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm, Steve, and you’re already doing all you can not to die. Cool it.”

            “I don’t know what the hell happened to my friend. Maybe you’ve got his memories, maybe you’re walking around in his skin, but you are not—“

            Perching on the edge of a rickety old dresser, I cut him off. “Sorry, Steve. No one here but me, and I’m Bucky. Just like I’ve always been.”

            “You are not,” Steve hisses. “Bucky was never _this_ —“

            “I was always this,” I counter. “I was always the one who did the dirty work so you could pretend you were righteous. I’m the bad guy, so you get to be the good guy. That’s how we are.”

            He’s so livid that he can’t speak for a moment. “You have got some nerve—“

            “No, you do. And we should get a few things on the table if you really want to holler at me for all my many sins. Which you can feel free to do, if you think it’ll make yourself feel better. You’ve always been happier pointing the finger at anyone other than yourself.”

            Staring at me, Steve says, “Are you—“

            “What was the pilot’s name?”

            Narrowing his eyes, Steve shakes his head. “What pilot?!”

            “The Wakandan. The ‘one more Wakandan on my conscience.’ What was their name? You never even said if they were female or male. They flew you all across Asia under attack, and you’ve never told me a thing about them. They must have been brave. They sacrificed their life for you. So? What was their name?”

            He inhales, and I can see him reaching for it. But I know what it’s like to search for a memory that’s not there.

            “And the three hundred before that—all dead in the name of Captain America. Tinder to light a fire under you.”

            “That wasn’t my fault—“

            “Of course it was. I can see from the look on your face you know it was, that you feel ignorant for just saying that. Of course they died because of you. Why aren’t we wailing about that? Why aren’t we trying to build monuments to them?”

            “It’s _different_. There’s a difference between battle and shooting two men in the face—“

            “Sure there is. You watched those men die, and the three hundred, well, three hundred is just a number, isn’t it.”

            “MODOK killed those people—“

            “You are not listening to me. Those people died because of you. Just like all those people in Okha. Do you dream about them at night, Steve? Are you having nightmares about them?”

            “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?”

            “Do you not think of Okha? How they died because of you?”

            Steve snaps, “They died—because you drove us there. I told you to stop, I told you to go somewhere else. If we want to blame anyone for Okha, guess who my money’s on right now?”

            “Yes, I chose to take us to Okha, but you certainly didn’t fight too hard. And ten thousand people died. We haven’t talked about that, have we. I’m sure plenty of policemen died in the bombing. And children. Old women. The vulnerable and the wicked, all in one place. Ten thousand people died in a place that you probably didn’t even know existed until three weeks ago, and they died because I was protecting you. Ten thousand, and you’re standing there having a tantrum because I shot two?”

            Steve gazes at me, then says, “This is _grotesque_ —“   

            “Of course it is. That’s why I do these things. So you don’t have to. It’s how it’s been since we were kids—“

            “ _No_!” Steve shouts, getting riled up again. “It wasn’t like that, _Bucky_ wasn’t like that—“

            “Yes I was,” I counter. “And we both need to accept that I _am_ Bucky Barnes.”

            “The hell I will, Bucky would never do the things you’ve done since this whole mess started—“

            “Augsburg,” I say, and that shuts him up pretty quickly. There’s not much light, so I’m seeing things mostly in grey, but I think he might have just paled. “Do you remember Augsburg, Steve? I do. Forty kilometres outside of town, the HYDRA base. We left behind a thousand Jewish slaves because they would have fucked up our time table, and we had bigger fish to fry. You were all ready to just scrap every single plan on the table to try and somehow get those men out of Germany— _Germany_ —until I stepped in and smacked some sense into you. I was the bad guy. That’s what I do. And I looked it up, when I remembered that day. You know how the history books tell it? ‘Captain America was able to destroy the HYDRA base at Augsburg, but unfortunately was only able to save thirteen labourers being kept captive.’ You have to look pretty fucking hard before you find out that the Nazis and HYDRA tracked down every single one of the others and had them shot. Hell, two hundred never even left the camp, because they were so weak. The story is, Captain America destroyed the base, not Captain America abandoned a thousand wretches so he could fight the Red Skull. That story happens because I made the hard choice, and you got to be hero. You saved the entire United States, because I made you keep to the mission. That give you some sleepless nights?” I shrug. “I didn’t really have the opportunity. I fell off a train a week later.”

            I’ve rattled him, and hard, but Steve doesn’t give up without a fight. “That’s—that isn’t how—“

            “Yes,” I say, rising. “That’s how it was. You _need_ to be the hero. You need it so bad that you have to go through the motions here and act like you’re going to get those police officers’ names tattooed on your arm, but we both know you’ll forget them like—“ I snap. “Like every other person who’s died to protect you. Hell, I’m lucky you even remembered _my_ name—“

            “Stop it,” he insists.

            “You think I’m not Bucky? I’ve _always_ been this way. You just turned a blind eye, because you wanted to be the good guy. Christ, I wanted you to be the good guy too. But don’t tell me you’ve never known exactly who and what I am. All those times I stole medicine from the shop for you? Oh, that’s not really stealing, he means well, and I need to get better. Bucky slept with a married woman? Oh, that’s not really bad, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Bucky jumped that kid who hit me last week while he was walking home, and cracked his eye socket? Well, I’ll pretend to be real mad about it, but he’s still my friend, and he just wants what’s best for me. Gee, what do you mean, Bucky gets off with boys? That doesn’t really mean he’s a fag, cause he likes girls too.” I lift a finger. “PS, I’m fucking done pretending like you haven’t known about _that_ since we were kids.”

            It might be dark, but I can still see him blush.

            “I—have always been a violent, manipulative deviant, and I—have always been your fucking friend, and I will do anything—any goddamn thing I need to so that I can protect you. Same as I always have. But this disingenuous ‘oh it’s my fault but it’s not really my fault’ bullshit ends this second, Rogers, because it’s _boring_.”

            He pulls back his head in shock, and says, “Excuse me?”

            “You heard me. You’re boring me with your blushing violet routine, like you don’t know the body count sky rockets any time you’re in the general zip code. People die, so you can live. That is how this is done—“

            “No, I don’t want that—“

            “Who gives a shit about what you want? You know how many people I figure have died so far because of MODOK and you in the past month and change? Eleven thousand. Now tell me, how many people are on this entire planet? 7.4 billion. How miniscule of a fraction of that is eleven thousand? Do you think those 7.4 billion give a shit about eleven thousand people the next time a hole in the sky opens and the Chitauri fall through? Guess what, answer’s no.”

            He is shaking his head, side to side, trying to block me out.

            “You signed up for this. Once you sign up, there’s no exit, soldier. There will always be a MODOK, or the Chitauri, or an AIM, or an Ultron, or a HYDRA, and you—made an idiotic pig headed decision when you were twenty five years old, and you can’t ever get out of it. Because you have to be the hero.”

            It seems to scrape up from inside him. It’s not quite a yell, but there’s a desperation there that feels like one. “I don’t _want_ that!”

            I’m not moved. “Tough. You need to be a hero, this is the price. We’ve always been playing a numbers game, even if you want to duck your head in the sand over it. You don’t win the war without casualties. You’re not that naïve. And plenty more will die before this is done. If you don’t start taking a good goddamn look around at the world and pay attention to the reality of what’s going on, MODOK is going to kill you. Then he’ll kill Sam, and whoever else he can get his hands on, and it won’t stop. Do I care if eleven thousand die? Do I care about two? God no. But 7.4 billion. I care about that. I’m not going to let you fuck this up. You’re the hero. Heroes accept the consequences of their actions. It’s this or you put a bullet in your mouth and stop bitching about the fucking cost.”

            Steve is taking steady breaths in and out of his nose. He looks like he hates me, but he looks scared too. That’s good.

            I step closer, lowering my voice. “And let’s be abundantly clear about something else. It’s practically my destiny to take care of you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t break your fucking face if you ever try and tell me again that I’m not Bucky Barnes. Cause you know what, Steve? Zola.” His eyes flicker, and my metal fist clenches shut. I have to work very hard to keep my anger contained. “Zola, and Operation Paperclip. After you thought I was dead—while you were still walking and talking and breathing and not under ice—he was sent to the States. You let that happen. You let Zola…live, and after a few years, he was just free to come and go as he pleased. And he came back to Europe and worked on me. Over. And over. And over again. The last time, before he was uploaded—he petted my head—like I—was a fucking _dog_.”

            By this point, I’ve moved so close to Steve that we’re almost nose to nose. His eyes are wide and unblinking.

            From the back of my throat, I growl, “So if you ever try and tell me again that I am not Bucky Barnes, we’ll have _that_ fight. And sweetheart, you will fucking _lose_.”        

            I step away from him, shuddering in disgust.

            I look at the door and raise my voice. “What, Sam?”

            From outside comes, “Uh—you guys finished?”

            Striding over to open the door, entirely done with this conversation, I lean against the frame. “Philadelphia?”

            Sam cringes. “A little bigger than that.”

            I hear Steve come up behind me. “How big?” Steve asks, back in the game.  

            Sam looks between us, and raises his shoulders. “Maybe World War Three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just me, wanting to say thank you again for making it this far. I love your comments, your thoughtfulness, and your patience. As always, you're all stars.


	25. Everett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what happened, but yesterday the story got 120 hits. For someone who was averaging 25-40 on a good day for the last story, that's insane. And on a Monday too. Is everyone okay? Hoping you are.  
> So, that being said--our heroes contend with the possible apocalypse, and discover MODOK's end game. Strap in, folks.

We sit at a sagging picnic bench that bows under our collective weight and creaks precipitously. After a silence, we get to the business at hand.

            “It’s all over the radio,” Sam reports. “North Korea just sent a nuke flying at Russia. It was intercepted, but the world’s having a collective hissy fit. First attempt at a nuclear strike since World War 2. You know, if you don’t count the World Security Council trying to kill everyone in New York.”

            “Is North Korea saying they did it?” Steve asks.

            “Hell no.”

            “We don’t think this was actually them, do we? It’s probably MODOK, trying to draw SHIELD’s attention.”

            “Well, my guess is they’ve got it, because North Korea’s saying the whole thing’s a set up by the United States. And they claim they have evidence they’ll reveal in two days.”

            We glance at each other. Steve is across the table, and because this is business we’re able to look at one another. “Technically, MODOK _is_ an American citizen,” I say.

            “We’ve got bigger problems than North Korea,” says Steve.

            “North Korea is usually a pretty big problem.”

            “China,” Sam says.

            I tilt my head to the side, conceding, “China might be a bigger problem.”

            “They’ve got a decent relationship with Russia these days,” says Steve, “but they’re not too nuts about North Korea. And we know they hate us.”

            “That won’t be the issue,” I say. “Geopolitics has gone the way of the dinosaurs. It’s about money. Each country isn’t defined by its landmass; imagine it as a corporation. Do we know what their trade relations are like?”

            Steve makes a face like he’s found a slice of lemon in his mouth, but Sam says, “China and Russia have what they’re calling a special relationship, but we’re still their number one trading partner. China is North Korea’s top trading partner, but North Korea’s way down on China’s list. I’d be more worried about China and Russia tag teaming, though, even if we are their largest trading partner, because that special relationship is legitimately about creating a united front against the US.”

            We both stare at him.

            Sam huffs and says, “I did two tours in Asia, I minored in political science, and I grew up in Washington DC. No, guys, I’m not just here for quippy one liners.”

            “Okay,” Steve regroups, “so if North Korea actually has evidence that the attack originated, by hacking, from the United States, do we actually think we’re looking at nuclear warfare?”

            I nod. “MODOK will make sure of it. You’re his top priority, but trust me. We might be talking about eleven thousand, but he doesn’t care if it’s ten million, twenty million—whatever covers him until he gets to you.”

            “Great,” Steve says, jaw clenched.

            “And if China and Russia declare war on us,” Sam adds, “you know we’re not alone. The EU will come in with us if they’re not too busy falling apart, we’ll have Israel—Canada too. The Middle Eastern countries—I think most of them will go to Russia and China. We’ll pick up a few, but not most.”

            “So we are in fact talking about World War Three,” Steve sums up. He props his head up on his hands. “All because of Vancouver.”

            “Don’t be so egotistical,” I say. “I’m sure MODOK had this planned no matter what we did. Trust me, he doesn’t care how you try to wriggle out of this. This was always on the docket.”

            “You know, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

            “Am I in the business of making you feel better?”

            “I think we’ve established that’s a no.”

            Sam glances at Steve, then says, “What’s our next move?”

            I look to Steve, and he nods. “Whatever MODOK wants it to be,” he says.

            “He’ll probably hold onto that evidence, whatever it is, until we’re exactly where he wants us and wherever that is will apparently be in two days or less. If we do what he wants, maybe we get lucky and he leaves Korea out to dry. We’re not lucky, the earth gets scorched.”

            Steve asks Sam, “Don’t suppose you know how many people there are in North Korea?”

            Sam thinks about it, and answers, “Twenty five million, I think.”

            Steve lets his head fall onto the picnic table. “Twenty five million,” he mutters.

            Raising his brow, Sam watches him a moment. “You okay, Cap?”

            “I’m tired,” Steve says simply.

            Sam turns to me. “What about you, JB?” He looks at me cautiously. He doesn’t feel great about the fact that I shot two policemen in the heads either, but I guess he’s being calmer about it since we suddenly have to contend with nuclear holocaust.

            “Little hungry. Other than that, I’m adequate. Oh—and my name is Bucky.” He frowns slightly, and I say, “You asked me if I’d figured out who I was. As it turns out, I figured out that I’m Bucky Barnes. Even if you are right, and it is a really stupid name. Honestly though, it could have been worse. Dum Dum Dugan’s middle name was Aloysius.”

            “Aloysius?” Sam retorts, incredulous.

            “Timothy Aloysius Dugan is a good Irish name,” Steve says. He sits back up, rubbing his hands over his face.

            I pipe up, “Oh—also, Sam, I lied to you. Steve’s always known I fuck guys, even if he’s never wanted to admit it.”

            “Oh,” Sam says.

            “One time, Gabe Jones fucked me so hard I limped for two days.”

            Steve chokes on nothing, covering his mouth with his hand, as Sam stares at me. “Gabe Jones—“ His eyes widen. “Gabe Jones, _the_ Gabe Jones.”

            I say to Steve, “What, you didn’t know about that?” He shakes his head, coughing behind his fist, and I shrug at Sam. “I put the ‘howling’ in Howling Commandos.”

            “Can we get back to World War Three?” Steve says in a tight voice.

            “Sure, though there’s not too much we can do about it until MODOK tells us what his real plans are.” Out of curiosity, I inquire, “By the way—Gabe was on the train with us. How’d he take it?”

            Steve is definitely bright red. “He and his wife named their first son Steven Buchanan Jones. Called him Bucky.”

            I nod. “That’s nice. I like that.” Inhaling, I shrug and get back to our impending doom. “Yeah, so World War Three. Sorry, fellas. Until MODOK says the word, we just do what we were going to anyways. Lay low, especially you two, and see if SHIELD comes through. They’re an army, we are three very visible people in a strange land where security guards don’t even carry guns.”

            “Did you kill the security guards?” Sam asks, then adds, “Bucky?”

            “No. Plasma rifle on low. Knocked them out.”

            “Cool. So our casualty count for this week is two cops and possibly the entire civilized world.”

            “Not just that,” I say. “All those uncontacted tribes will perish in the ensuing nuclear winter, so the uncivilized world too.”

            Steve says, “I’m tired.”

 

We come into a small town called Everett the next day. We left the main highway through the mountains and are just travelling on whatever paved roads we find, so discovering this place was a happy accident. There’s maybe a hundred people who live here, and the only businesses are a gas station, a restaurant, and a barber.

            I park behind an empty, crumbling house, leaving them on their own. They’re not idiots. There’s trees for them to walk through if they want to stretch their legs, but they won’t go far. I’ll get food for everyone from the restaurant, then go back for them, and we’ll hit the gas station on the way out.

            It’s snowing a little. I’ve got my hood up, my gloved hands in my pocket. It’s a pretty little town. You know, for one that’s slowly falling apart.

            Today I feel different. I’ve felt myself changing over the past few weeks, what with the constant exposure to Steve, having to face so many little returning memories. But finally accepting who I am—for better or worse—I kind of feel okay about it. I actually feel sort of human.

            I stop under the barber’s pole. I look inside, a touch curious.

            The chair makes me nervous. Chairs that raise up and down, chairs that are shaped like that—I get a visceral gut reaction.

            Maybe I am Bucky Barnes. But I still look like the Winter Soldier. And I think I’ve had my fill.

            Hunching in on myself, I open up the door and step inside. There’s an old man sitting on one of the chairs with a book. He has a white smock on, like the orderlies used to have black smocks when they’d put me in the chair—

            Status.

            Visible. Known for current appearance. Must rectify situation.

            “Morning!” he says. He’s thick across the middle and his face is long and hangdog, but he looks like a happy person.

            “Mornin’,” I say, letting the old voice come in. “Jeez, I can’t seem to get warm.”

            “Pretty mild out there for us,” he says.

            I push my hood back, and say somewhat sheepishly, “Don’t think you could do something with this mop, do you?”

            “Trust me, my friend, it would be my pleasure.”

            I shrug out of my coat, hanging it up, and rub my hands together, blowing on them. “I know I’m gonna look like a real idiot if I keep these on, but I can’t help it.”

            Laughing, he turns the chair towards me. “I’m not one to judge. Come on over.”

            The chair means reset. The chair always means a reset.

            Bucky. Stop.

            Sometimes a chair is just a chair.

            I sit down, and I stay admirably in character as he drapes a sheet over me, fastening it at my neck. “So what are we doing today?” he says, going for the scissors.

            I see all those silver instruments, gleaming, clean, and I curl my metal fist against my stomach. “Honestly—I think I’d like it a lot like yours.”

            He’s surprised for a moment, but then he smiles. I smile back.

 

I climb back into the truck an hour later, and Sam snatches the containers from my hands. “Hey,” I say, “one of those is mine.”

            “I’m _starving_ ,” he growls.

            “Two of them are for Steve, because he’s probably actually starving, unlike you, who is just being dramatic.” I settle in the back seat as they divvy up the food. I just got everyone burgers. Pushing back my hood, I look out at the snow. Weather’s getting worse.

            Sam holds back a styrofoam container, and I take it. “Food. I have missed you,” he almost sings to his burger.

            I roll my eyes, opening up the container. Steve asks from the driver’s seat, “Did anyone—“

            He doesn’t finish the sentence, and I’ve got a mouthful of fries. I say around it, “No.”

            It takes a few seconds to realize that he’s not moving. I lick off my thumb, and look up.

            Steve’s cheeks have flushed across where they’re freckled. He’s looking down at his food, expression somewhere between angry and sad. Oh. Right.

            Sam glances at him, then back at me. “Jesus wept.”

            I shrug. “Everyone’s looking for a long haired psycho. I might as well be a psycho with decent hair.”

            The barber said it’s a popular look with the kids these days. Short on the sides and back, left long on top, parted on the side. Well, I was making this look good in 1944, so I feel like they’re copying me more than anything else.

            “What am I supposed to make fun of you for if you don’t have that dumb ass hair?”

            “Dunno, Pigeon. There’s always my mental instability.”

            He rolls his eyes and chows down. Steve doesn’t say anything, just eats quietly.

 

When we roll up to the gas station, Steve and Sam have their hoods up, and Sam has his sunglasses on. I don’t bother. I’m wearing an olive drab jacket and I’ve got short hair, and I don’t look much like the long haired, masked, black clad monster that shot two cops in cold blood yesterday.

            I pump the gas, and go inside to pay, Sam yelling after me, “See if they have Smarties!”

            Stepping inside, I smile politely at the girl behind the counter. She immediately straightens, with a smile of her own. Pretty. Twenty, dark hair, light brown skin.

            I walk down the aisles to the juice and pop. I open up the door, getting a blast of cold air.

            For a second, there’s a wave of dissonance, because I swear I hear the sound the cryo chamber makes when it opens. I shut my eyes.

            Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

            I lean down, pulling out three bottles of water as the girl at the counter answers the phone. Smarties. I don’t know what Smarties are. I’ll have to ask.

            “Is this some kind of joke?”

            Immediately, I straighten, closing the door. In the reflection, I can see the counter girl staring at the wall, phone up to her ear. She looks like someone just punched her in the stomach. Then her eyes lift to me.

            Abort.

            I put down the bottles and head for the door.

            “Mister—mister wait—“ I’m almost at the door when the girl says frantically, “She says if you don’t put Steve on the phone, someone’s gonna kill my boyfriend!”

            She?

            It takes less than a second. Oh, hell. Should have seen _that_ coming.

            I nod, and say, “I’ll go get him.”

            I push out through the door, walking over to the truck. Steve and Sam are in the middle of a serious looking conversation. I try to open Steve’s door, but it’s locked. He turns to look at me, and I tap on the window.

            Rolling it down, he says, “What is it?”

            “Phone’s for you. I think MODOK has Sharon.”

            Steve stares at me, then he’s trying to open the door. He’s forgotten that it’s locked, and instead just shoves it open, metal screeching and popping. I sigh as he goes running past. Guess we’ll have to steal a new vehicle. I follow him back inside.

            Steve’s grabbed the phone from the scared looking girl behind the counter, and he has it up against his ear. “Sharon?” After a second, he closes his eyes. “Yes.”

            For the next thirty seconds, all he says is ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ His voice doesn’t change at all. Sam’s followed too, and I’m glad to see he thought to bring his guns. Now the counter girl looks really scared.

            Steve opens his eyes, gazing at the floor. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this. I promise, you’re not going to have to worry about anything like this ever happening again. Goodbye, Sharon.” He hangs up, looking at the phone a moment.

            Then he holds it out to the counter girl, saying, “You have a computer in the back, right? A laptop?”

            She doesn’t take the phone, replying angrily, “What the _hell_ is going on? What is she talking about, someone’s going to kill Brian?”

            “Cami, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I need you to take us to your computer, and everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

            “Bullshit it’s going to be okay—I know who you are, you’re all over the paper, and why the hell am I suddenly in the middle of—“

            Steve says evenly, “Cami. We need to see you your computer. Now please.”

            She stalls a moment, then with a vicious fit of cursing leads us into the back of the store. We all file into the room after her. Pulling her computer out of her bag, she puts it on a table. It has stickers all over it, including one with the anarchy symbol. I’ve often wondered how frequently people who adopt that symbol actually understand what anarchy means.

            She turns it on, then Steve puts a hand to her elbow and gently pushes her towards the door. “Thank you. We’ll only be a few minutes.”

            The girl looks at him in disbelief, then stalks out of the room.

            The screen flickers, and MODOK sits in front of us at a table. Embedded in it is a big red button.

            “Captain America,” he breathes. He looks livelier than last time, eyes wider.

            Sam casts me a gaze that telegraphs _that is one ugly fucker_. MODOK might be rested, but it’s not like it’s done anything for his appearance.

            “I assume you’re going to tell me what the button is for,” Steve says, hands in his pockets, calm.

            “I will. Let me assure you—Agent Carter will be just fine. The truth of it is, I don’t think it would hurt you that much if I did kill her. And my intention is to hurt you deeply.”

            “I’m glad to hear she’ll be okay. I don’t suppose you’d like to prove that, would you?”

            And MODOK laughs. It’s a low, steady chuckle. It’s the sound of a man who knows he’s long since won, and thinks it’s funny that we believe we’re in a position to bargain.

            “Back to this.” MODOK lays his copper coloured fingers on the table. He only has four of them per hand. They are bigger and thicker than my old ones. I don’t imagine he does much actual work with them. His brain is his best and most dangerous tool. “I thought I’d make it very simple for you.”

            “I do what you want, or you press that really obvious button and release evidence that the United States tried to covertly attack Russia through North Korea.”

            “A noble effort for a creature with such a small brain. But no. I’m afraid not.” MODOK taps his claws on the table. “My name. You know what it stands for, I presume?”

            Steve bites off each word, one by one. “Mental Organism Designed Only for Killing.”

            “Very good, Captain. A ridiculous moniker, but Aldrich Killian wasn’t known for his lack of excess. AIM gave me that name, much like you were given your name. Much like that one was given his.” His large, half lidded eyes briefly find me. “I believe the only one among us who actually picked his own name was Mr. Wilson. And even then, he named himself after a project he had been involved in. Names don’t quite encompass us, do they. They scratch the surface, but they don’t really tell—the truth of a thing. Captain America. Much like the place for which you’re named, you’re earnest and cunning, championing peace while purveying violence. You are a hypocrite in a silly suit. And I—MODOK—am only designed to kill. That is my goal, I admit. But I don’t just want to kill you. I want to hurt you first.”

            He looks at me again, and something makes my spine go electric.

            “I want to hurt you, like I was hurt. I want you tortured, your very spirit drained, until you accept the inevitable, and do what you are meant to do. I want you to suffer…for how much they have made me hate you.”

            I swallow.

            Steve says, “MODOK—you understand that we don’t have to do this. AIM forced you into—“

            “I hated you before AIM. I hated every one of you…enhanced. That’s what they call us. It is the polite term, instead of the proper one: freaks. We are freaks, Captain America. Both of us are dangerous. We are violent. We are abominations. We kill to achieve our ends, and we will be destroyed doing so. But not you before I. Not this time. I end you before the world ends me.” MODOK bends his heavy, metal encased head forward. “Perfection is abomination, Captain America—but you are not perfect. Your appearance fools people. It makes them and you think you’re better than I. I’ve studied you and little other than you for years, and I’ve come to a conclusion: we are equally united in our monstrosity, only your face allows you to walk amongst them as a god, while I…am hated. This hypocrisy comes to an end. Now.”

            I think both Steve and I are startled when Sam says, “Just out of curiosity, MODOK, how’s SHIELD treating you?”

            MODOK turns to him, as if seeing him for the first time. “I anticipated that you would stage some large display to get around my children. The largest possible venue for such a display was Vancouver, so I was unsurprised by your choice of location. The bank—was troublesome. I was unable to prevent the message from reaching Stark.”

            I can almost feel the register of relief in Steve.

            “He did pose me a great deal of concern for approximately three hours. And his children are quite adept at attacking mine. Perhaps even in a few days’ time, his programs will have destroyed all of my creations. But by then, I will be gone, and the damage—perhaps—will already be done.”

            “Why only three hours?” Steve asks.

            It is a gruesome thing, when MODOK smiles, those fleshy, cracked lips pressed against the glass. “I am afraid a Ms. Pepper Potts was in Russia at the time of the attack by the North Koreans yesterday. Your Iron Man is as predictable as you, Captain America. When your women are threatened, you drop everything and run to them, as though it’s your property being attacked. You and your friend have both been so deeply programmed with misogynistic attitudes that I spent all of five minutes working on a contingency for what I would do if Tony Stark didn’t abandon his search for me to leave for Russia. As for SHIELD—they are still in disarray after first the Triskelion falling, then your little family squabble. They’re hardly in a position to send agents after every possible lead, and they have far more pressing concerns in Asia at the moment. It was remarkably easy to contend with your dramatics in Vancouver.”

            Well, fuck. It’s expected, but still—fuck.

            “Now, Captain America. Have you thought about what I asked you?”           

            Steve gazes at him, and responds flatly, “How many lives mine is worth.”

            “Have you considered it?”

            Steve blinks slowly, then nods.

            “Good. I calculate that so far 11 173 people have died since I began my campaign against you. I doubt this is enough to bring you to me for execution. You consider yourself too valuable. Your allies consider you too valuable. And still it pains you, and I do enjoy that. I enjoy the sight of your suffering. I have watched many times your reaction when the Winter Soldier executed Constables Raj Manooj and Gerald MacNamara. The conflict on your face was most gratifying, as you pretended it mattered. They wore a uniform, so their lives were more valuable, is that it? More so than the oil workers in Okha? The children? The world would have thought you would be far more perturbed by the children I’ve murdered in my pursuit of you, but I’ve researched you well enough, Captain America. They won’t trouble you so much as Constables Manooj and MacNamara. Your moral hypocrisy is predictable, and it makes me ill. So let’s be done with this. Shall we?”

            Quiet, Steve says, “I would like that.”

            “I am not sentimental, Captain America. But you are. I know this simply by the virtue of you standing next to that.” He glances at me. “That is also an abomination, made as I was made. Yet you chose sides with him against all common sense, because he was once James Barnes. You even put on your old uniform to fight him over the Potomac. You’re a man who needs symbols, who flounders without them. You believe in things deeply. And so I wondered. What would hurt you most? What number would be so high—what could I do—that would really hurt you?”

            I narrow my eyes. I don’t care for this.

            “I see it in your face now, Captain. You don’t think there’s much left for me to do to you. There’s no place on earth that’s safe for you. You have few allies outside the two who stand beside you, and those few allies find themselves busy with matters much larger than you. The people you’ve loved are dead. The world you find yourself in is strange, and dangerous, and you’ve tried to cut yourself off from it as much as you can. Perhaps there is little in the present that you could truly do without. But if I combine sheer numbers, and your past, I think I could hurt you _quite_ terribly.”

            Steve sucks in a sharp breath. I haven’t figured it out, but he has, and he’s gone pale as milk.

            “Please,” he whispers.

            “I’ve had two and a half years to prepare for this day, Captain America.” MODOK lets out another low laugh. “Captain…America. A ridiculous name. Before that…a long time ago, you were just Steve Rogers, from Vinegar Hill.”

            It’s a strange thing. My whole body slumps. Every muscle, every connection in my arm. Instead of going rigid with shock and fear, my body seems to want to come apart at the seams.

            I’d ask if he means it, but I know he does.

            MODOK gazes out at us with his bulging eyes, unmoved by our horror. “I have had to be very careful, and therefore I’ve not been able to place explosives across the entire borough. Only half. However, I will be able to destroy approximately 50% of Brooklyn.” He holds his claws over the red button. “And all by touching this.”

            Steve steps forward, saying quickly, “No—please. Please, I will do whatever you want. Just don’t.”

            “I don’t mean to. Not now at least. And not at all, if you surrender yourself to me.” MODOK withdraws his arm, resting them both on the table he sits at. It’s empty save for that ridiculous red button. “I figured you would need me to make it simple for you. After all the running and the lying and the heroics and the not so heroics and the endless moral complexity—it all comes down to this. A push of a button. You, me, a button, a confrontation. Simple. Meet me at the building in Plymouth Street, at 23:00 hours this evening, or half a million people will find themselves in very deep trouble indeed. I will turn your home to ashes.” He glances around. “I shall be quite safe in here, should you choose not to join me. It is quite nicely reinforced. I’ve had two and a half years to work on this, after all.”

            Steve’s hands are clenching and unclenching. I see his jaw twitching spastically.

            We’re in trouble.

            “And Mr. Wilson, before you ask, as I see you’re going to, I will be monitoring all your communications during the upcoming hours. If an attempt is made to alert SHIELD or any other authority as to the current situation in Brooklyn, I press this button.”

            “We’ll need to arrange transport,” Steve says.

            “I can send a plane.”

            “You’ll forgive me, but I don’t exactly trust you, and I’d rather fly friendly. If you monitor the call I make to request transport, will you allow me to do that?”

            “Yes, but I assure you, I can tell from the register of your voice whether or not you’re dissembling. The moment I feel that you’re attempting to alert anyone to my intentions, say by code, I push this very simple button. I am going to make this very uncomplicated, Captain America, since I think anything more would be too much for you. It’s you, and I, and that is all. You leave your allies behind. You and you alone join me at 23:00, and any attempt to stop me will mean the immediate destruction of Brooklyn. I think this city has seen enough death—don’t you?”

            Steve nods. He’s calm again. He’s decided what he’s doing, and when he does that he gets calm, much like I do. “I’ll be there. Alone. Just like you want.” He points to a phone on the wall. “Do you mind if I call for a ride?”

            “Be my guest.”

            Steve picks the phone up. After a moment’s thought, he types in way more numbers than any international number I know. Putting the phone to his ear, he stands with his mouth pursed, feet apart.

            Sam’s watching MODOK, not showing any emotion. I’m methodically looking between them all, waiting to see what happens and collecting data.

            Someone must pick up, because Steve says, “Agent—it’s Steve Rogers.” There’s a long gap, to the point where Steve looks around. Finally, he prompts, “Hello?”

            I faintly hear someone say, “Yes sir.”

            “I know it’s a hell of a favour, but I need a ride into New York City as quickly as possible.”

            “That definitely qualifies as a favour.” I don’t know the man’s voice. He sounds calm, professional. “I’m afraid I’m in Pyongyang at the moment, sir.” Steve flinches, but the man says, “Your location, Captain?”

            Steve hesitates. “You know I—“

            “SHIELD is a little busy at the moment, Captain. If you have business in New York, I don’t think anyone needs to know about that except you and I. Your location, Captain.”

            “Everett, British Columbia.”

            “Can I call you back on this line?”

            “Yes. I have to be in New York—“ Steve glances at the laptop screen. “By tonight.”

            “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call you back in the next ten minutes.”

            The man hangs up, and Steve looks back at MODOK. The man in the machine smiles slightly. “Wouldn’t it be nice, Captain America, if they were all resurrected so easily?”

            Steve weighs the phone in his hand, and then he smiles a little. Same old Steve, cocky after all these years. “You know I’m going to stop you, don’t you? You’ve studied me for years. So you’ve got to know—I will _never_ let you win.”

            And MODOK says, “Predictable to the last in your arrogance.”

           

When we finally get outside in the worsening snow storm, none of us say anything. I can tell Steve has a plan, and I’m sure it’s a terrible plan, just from the look on his face. The thing is, I know him, and whatever he’s decided on, he’s not going to veer from it. Sam has his arms wrapped around himself, waiting to hear what the orders will be.

            We climb into the truck, and Steve goes to close the door before realizing that he broke it. He sighs softly, then turns. “Buck, can you get me some of that rope? I don’t feel like having the window down, particularly with this beautiful weather.”

            I pull the out the length of rope, passing it to him warily. He expertly ties it through the door and secures it to the bottom of his seat, before turning the truck on.

            Sam glances back at me, but I’m too busy watching Steve. Sam can’t take it anymore. “So? What’s the plan?”

            Taking the truck out of park, Steve replies, “Plan’s simple. I die.”


	26. Unmade

_Well, this is new._

_“Who’s your friend?” I ask._

_The bald guy with the goatee who’s been torturing me for I don’t know how long has brought a buddy. The guy’s dressed in a private’s uniform, and he’s got a hood over his head._

_Baldy Goatee looks a little pleased. “We’ve had good news. I assumed you wouldn’t believe it, coming from me, so I brought someone else to give it to you.”_

_The guy in the private’s uniform is shaking. I don’t know if I trust it. They do a lot of things here that can’t be trusted. Like everything. The guy is sitting in front of me, tied to a chair. But a regular chair. Not this thing they have me strapped into._

_Baldy Goatee walks over to the private and pulls his hood off._

_Hey. I know him._

_He looks frantic, a gag in his mouth. When his eyes find me, they bulge._

_“Zero, ain’t it?” I say._

_Baldy Goatee unfastens the gag, and Zero sucks in air. He glances up at our captor, but he still seems more surprised to see me than anything. “Sarge?” he gasps, like he can’t believe I’m sitting here._

_“Yeah. I know, I’m not in great shape.”_

_“Jesus, Sarge, what did they do to you?”_

_Shrugging my stump as much as I can, I say, “Ah, nothing I can’t walk off.”_

_“You’re supposed to be dead. The Cap—“ Zero’s face falls. “Oh Jesus. Jeez, Sarge.”_

_“He’s looking for me. Yeah, I figured.”_

_Zero flinches, and I don’t like that. He looks kind of embarrassed. Embarrassed really isn’t how anyone should look when we’re both captives in a HYDRA lair and I’m probably five minutes away from getting the living shit shocked out of me for the millionth time._

_“What, Private?” I ask. “C’mon. Spit it out.”_

_For a moment, he just keeps pulling in little breaths. He looks so sorry for me. Yeah, I know I’m a pretty ugly sight right now, but I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. “He thought you was dead, Sarge—we all thought you was dead.”_

_“But he’s looking for me,” I say, certain of it like I’m certain that the sun rises and sets. He promised. He came for me before. He’s coming again. He’ll find me._

_Zero says, “I’m so sorry, Sarge.”_

_There’s a flicker inside._

_They’ve been telling me—how long have they been telling me now—that he never looked for me. That he never bothered. I didn’t believe them. How long has it been? He had a winter coat, then no coat, and then a winter coat again. How long have I been here?_

_“How long have I been gone?” I ask._

_“It’s—two months now?”_

_Jesus, only two months? It feels like a thousand years. I was wrong about the coats. He was just trying to throw off my sense of time passing. Son of a bitch._

_I realize that Zero’s swallowing, over and over again. In his eyes, I see there’s something else. He has to tell me something, but he doesn’t want to. And whatever it is, it’s worse than us being here._

_“What, Zero?”_

_He looks at me, and I see he’s trying not to cry._

_I’m pushing against the straps, trying to rise off the table. “Zero, what?”_

_He shakes his head, and whispers, “C—“ Zero swallows again. “Cap died last week.”_

_I stare at him._

_Then I start to laugh._

_To Baldy Goatee, I say, “This is a new tactic. Real slick.” I flop back into my chair, shaking my head._

_“I’m so sorry, Sarge,” Zero says unhappily. “I’m so sorry—if he’d known you was still alive, he woulda done something—we just didn’t know—aw, Jeez, Sarge, I’m so sorry—“_

_“Can it, Zero.” I raise a brow at my enemy and say, “You gonna shock me again or what?”_

_Shaking his head, Baldy Goatee pulls a little pistol from his pocket. “No need,” he answers, pulling the bolt back. I just lift my eyes away as he shoots Zero in the head. I don’t jump. They’ve taken a lot of my reactions out of me. Probably has to do with how much electricity has travelled through my dome._

_“C’mon,” I say to him, not showing that I cared about Zero in the least. I’m honestly not sure I ever did. “Steve thinking I’m dead? Sure, maybe. But he’ll find this place no matter what. So use that fucking pistol on me too, or stop wasting my time.”_

_He steps closer, pulling a little white thing from his pocket. “You’re strong. The serum has made you strong, and I admire that about you. We thought that eventually we would use you against the Captain, but it is apparent now that the war is lost. This war at least. There are other wars. Only, there’s no more Captain to fight.”_

_He attaches something to the spike that hangs above my head._

_It’s a picture of Steve. It looks familiar. He has a white t-shirt on, and he’s smiling sheepishly. I need a moment to place it._

_It’s the picture I carried in my helmet. I lost that years ago._

_Was it years? I can’t keep track of time so well anymore._

_“You’ve done well. The fact that you’ve fought so hard tells me that once you’re ready, you will be a valuable asset. Everything else has gone except this. Once you’re prepared to give up this last thing, then you’ll be ready.”_

_“I haven’t given you anything,” I snap._

_He asks, “What was your mother’s name?”_

_I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”_

_“What was your mother’s name?”_

_“Don’t be stupid, I ain’t got no mother. What kind of game is this?”_

_“Your father’s name?”_

_“I haven’t got one of those either. What are you playing at?”_

_“You’ve forgotten. You’ve forgotten your mother, your father. Your sister. Your two brothers. You don’t remember where you grew up. Your memories of the last three years are starting to fade as well. I wasn’t sure you would even remember Private Zeroni. I think it’s only because of the peripheral connection to Captain Rogers that you did.” The bald man nods at the picture. “He’s the only thing you had left. And now he’s dead.”_

_“Steve’s not dead,” I say through gritted teeth._

_“He is indeed.” He raises his shoulders. “I don’t expect you to believe me. But there is proof. The entire world is mourning Captain America. I have much to show you.”_

_I’m jerking at the straps, even though I know it won’t help. “Jesus, just shock me already! Just get it over with!”_

_He shakes his head. “No.”_

_And they don’t shock me that day._

_Or the next._

_Or the next._

_I do not sleep. They don’t let me sleep._

_It is me alone in a room. My eyes are held open, and my head is kept in place. I’m not allowed to look away from the wall._

_Every second of the day, I watch projections on the wall. Newspaper articles. Pictures. News reels._

Captain America Dead _._

_That’s what all of them say in one way or another._

_I don’t believe it the first day._

_They start playing the same radio broadcast on a loop the second day so loud that I can’t hear myself think. Someone stabs me with a needle and I feel my whole body infuse with energy, and I try to fight everything I’m seeing and hearing._

_Someone whispers in my ear, “You are soldat.”_

_I watch._

_Time has no meaning._

_I don’t know what is true._

_Steve Rogers was my friend._

_No. Steve Rogers is my friend. Steve isn’t dead. Steve is my friend. He’s going to rescue me. He promised. Steve would never lie to me._

_Would he?_

_You are soldat._

_Bright flashes of light. His face. His beautiful face. Dead. Crashed._

_A woman with curly dark hair, mouth crumpling and turning away from the camera._

_A voice saying the same words over and over again. He’s dead._

_No. No, I don’t…._

_The light flashes._

_More needles. I’m slipping._

_I can’t remember why I’m here._

_I see his face. His face and his smile. I think I loved him. I think I loved the man with the bashful smile and kind eyes._

_Steve. His name is Steve._

_More needles._

_More lights._

_I can’t remember my name._

_I remember his name._

_His name is Steve._

_Time has no meaning._

_I am a body in a room. I am a body in a room with lights and the same words._

_And Steve. Only he’s dead._

_Steve is dead._

_I’m screaming._

_When did I start? I feel like this is the first moment of my existence and this is how I begin, I begin with a scream. A man is speaking and there are pictures in front of me but I don’t know why. There are pictures on the wall of a man. I don’t know who he is._

_I’m screaming._

_I scream._

_I scream._

_Lights._

_I scream._

_I blink my eyes. My eyes hurt. Everything hurts. Everything hurts so badly that I don’t even really feel it. I can’t keep my mouth open, or my head up. I know I should, but I can’t._

_A hand cups my cheek, and lifts my head. He’s helping me, because I can’t do it myself. He looks kind. He has no hair. I wonder where it’s gone._

_“What is your name?” he asks gently._

_I want to answer him. He asked me a question, and when you’re asked a question, you’re supposed to answer. He asked what my name was. I don’t think I have one._

_I say the first word that comes to mind, worried about upsetting him. “Soldat?”_

_His eyes go soft, and I smile, because I’ve pleased him._

_He pats my cheek, and says, “It’s a good smile. A pity you’ll have to lose it.” He looks past me and says, “Wipe him.”_


	27. Snow/Lower East Side

I haven’t said a word the entire drive.

            Steve’s held Sam off by saying, “We’ll discuss it when we get to the rendezvous point.” He says that the quinjet will take two hours to arrive. Sam’s almost vibrating in his seat.

            Steve has gotten extremely calm, consulting the map we picked up at the gas station. We’re driving deeper into the mountains, off the main roads. I don’t know this place.

            I’ve got a terrible, twisting feeling in my stomach.

            Finally, we come to a big open space, but the road has ended. It’s just snow, and mountains all around us. I can’t see the sky for the snow falling. I don’t like this place. It reminds me of somewhere.

            Steve says, “Here we are,” and gets out.

            Sam scrambles out of the vehicle, going around the front. As I open my door, he says, “What the hell do you mean, you’re going to die?”

            “Sam.”

            “No, don’t be ridiculous. That’s not the actual plan, right? That’s not the plan. You’ve got some trick up your sleeve. You always do.”

            I close the door softly, watching as Steve leans back against the hood and crosses his arms. “Not this time.”

            Sam stares at him, then gives his head a shake, narrowing his eyes. “No. You’re not telling me something. I _know_ you’re not telling me something.”

            “The plan is pretty simple,” Steve shrugs. “About as simple as him pressing that button. I walk in there strapped with enough explosives to kill him in his bunker, and if I don’t see another opportunity, I take him out. He doesn’t get the chance to blow up a million people.”

            Sam’s jaw is agape. He lifts both hands, and says, “That—is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard you tell me to what to do if that nice scientist friend of yours suddenly becomes like ten foot tall and green! Steve! We are not doing this.”

            “We’re not doing anything. I am. If MODOK wants me dead, he can have me. But I’m not letting anyone else die on my account.”

            Rubbing his hands briskly over his face, Sam pauses before continuing. “Steve. I know you’re in a tough spot, and you feel guilty about—“

            “This isn’t survivor’s guilt. This is me admitting that what everyone says about me is right. I make a lot of noise, and I put a lot of people in unnecessary danger. It won’t stop until I’m dead. If it’s not a MODOK, it’s HYDRA, or Zemo, or somebody else. And I’m done.”

            “I—am not letting you commit suicide!” Sam yells in his face. He turns to me, and says, “Would you talk to him? Would you tell him what he’s doing?”

            “You’re walking into a trap,” I tell him.

            “Of course I am,” Steve says without looking at me.

            I walk to the front of the truck, and say, “He’ll expect you to do this.” Me on one side, Sam on the other. Steve just standing with crossed arms, gazing off into the snow. He’s made up his mind, and I don’t think we’re going to sway him.

            “He’s studied me for years. He’ll know that I’ve done everything I can to stay alive.” Steve says quietly, “No matter the cost.”

            “And he also knows that you’re infamous for sacrificing your life in order to protect the greater good. You are beyond predictable. He knows you’ll do this.”

            “I kind of doubt that even MODOK could guess that Captain America would willingly turn himself into a suicide bomber.”

            “Steve,” Sam says desperately, “think about it—he’s probably got himself rigged up to whatever thing he’s got under the city. You kill him, it goes off.”

            “If he has anything at all,” Steve replies. He shakes his head. “It’s the most famous city on earth, and Brooklyn’s the largest borough in the city. Do we really think that he’s somehow managed to mine half of Brooklyn without anyone noticing?”

            “Yes,” I reply. “It wouldn’t have to be big. All he’d have to do is put a few conveniently located bombs on the gas lines and it would take out blocks.”

            “Or if he piloted in his drones,” Sam adds. “Steve, use your head. He’s messing with you.”

            “Oh fuck,” I mutter. I put the butt of my palms to my forehead. “I’m a moron.”

            “I’m already dealing with one, Bucky, I cannot deal with two right now.”

            I feel like an idiot. I should have recognized it as it was happening. I’ve spent so long under other people’s control that it barely shows up on my radar anymore.

            Lifting my hands, I say bitterly, “He manipulated us both. I don’t know if he meant to work on me so much, but it worked plenty. He wants you focused on the numbers. He wants you thinking about how you’re not worth all those lives. He’s forcing you into doing this by playing on your compassion. He knows you have to be a hero. I played into it, I pushed you exactly where he wanted you to go.”

            “It doesn’t matter,” Steve says, and he is so infuriating. He’s so convinced he’s right. He has been like that his whole life, and I don’t know how to change his mind now. He’s decided to die in eight hours’ time.

            “It matters.”

            He shakes his head. “I was supposed to be dead seventy two years ago. This has been borrowed time, fellas. And let’s face it—I might have done more harm than good.”

            Sam presses his fists together, leaning forward. “Steve. Steve, you gotta listen to me. You are not thinking straight, and I know you don’t want to hear that. You’ve been under more stress than any man can possibly shoulder, and I understand the appeal of checking out. But it’s not going to happen.”

            “Then tell me how else we beat him.”

            He looks at Sam, and Sam grimaces. He struggles a moment, then says, “He’s connected to the internet. If we could reverse it, if we could find him—“

            “We already know where he is. He’s at the apartment on Plymouth Street, and if you’re suggesting that we attack him with some kind of computer virus in the next eight hours, then you must have some serious computer skills that I don’t know about. We’re not the members of the team that knew how to do that, Sam. We’re the muscle, not the brains.”

            “You—are supposed to be the goddamn brains! We can figure out another way. We’ll figure out a way to let SHIELD know, to let anybody know—we can _do_ this!”

            “Sam,” Steve sighs. “He’ll find out if we try and tell anyone. Of course he’ll find out. I can’t have that on my head. No more. I’m tired of running.”

            I catch Sam’s eyes. He agrees with my course of action.

            Before I get more than a step, Steve’s got a gun pointed at my face. Safety off and everything. Cool as a cucumber, he says, “I know what you’d do. And that’s not an option.”

            Slowly, I lift my hands, trying to keep his attention. He looks pretty steady with that Glock in his hand. I don’t see any of the boy I knew.

            Sam moves fast, but Steve’s quicker.

            He throws an elbow into Sam’s stomach, turning to grab him as I leap across the hood. Steve spins out of my way, tossing Sam like he’s as light as a pillow across the snow. I land on the ground, going to grab the gun, but Steve twists back against my body, yanking the glove off my metal hand. He hooks a leg around the back of my knee, jerking me off my feet.

            I somersault back up. I throw an uppercut at him as I rise, but Steve grabs my sleeve and swings me around, slamming me against the truck. Sam’s back on his feet, running back to us as I try to jam my knee into Steve, but he’s slipping something up my metal arm.

            I’m shocked so hard I see stars before I black out.

 

 

_I’m stuck on the Lower East Side._

_They’re watching the bridge. I tried to cross into Brooklyn, but they were there. I don’t know who they are but I could recognize the look in their eyes. They were looking for me._

_I try heroin. There’s a lot of that around. It doesn’t do anything. I try drinking. I can’t get drunk._

_Sometimes when I wake up, I think that I’m in purgatory. I can see where I want to go, but I’m stuck in this grey, burned out land. No way forward, no way back._

_Some days I remember my name. Some days I don’t._

_There are days when I remember my mother’s face. There are days when I don’t._

_I never forget Steve._

_Little Steve. All those times I stood up for him. I was so nuts for him. He was a great person. I wanted to be a great person too._

_There was big Steve. I followed him, because he was a great man. When you get old and realize you’re just going to be normal, you find yourself drawn to great people. Like you’re drawn to sunlight. Or like a moth drawn to flame._

_They hurt me through Steve. I have been hurt. I am scared of being hurt again._

_Steve is dead. It is 1973 and Steve has been dead since 1945. That must mean I’m old. I don’t check, though. I don’t look in mirrors. I exist. That’s enough. Steve does not exist. That’s too much to bear._

_I see his face one day on a t-shirt. A boy with long hair is walking by, and he smells disgusting, and he has Steve’s beautiful face on his shirt, in his star spangled uniform, only the words AMERICAN FASCIST have been scrawled across Steve’s beautiful face._

_I follow the boy home and when I leave I think he’s still breathing but I’m not sure, and I realize later that even though I washed my hands, there is still blood crusted under my fingernails._

_One day I go in a comic shop, I’m not sure why, and I see Steve. Steve having adventures on the pages, where he’s always alive and always young and the bad guy always loses. I buy every comic they have with Steve, and I hold them to my chest the whole way back to the flop house. I spend the day reading about all his adventures. They are not true adventures. I don’t remember much about our time together, but the Steve in the comics isn’t like real Steve. Story Steve’s smile is arrogant instead of self-conscious, he gives speeches that sound like someone who doesn’t speak English as a first language, and sometimes he fights aliens. I don’t think we ever fought aliens._

_But in them, Steve is alive._

_The next day, I realize they are across the street. So I burn all of the comics in a waste bin except the one and I escape out the back, climbing up over the roofs, and I run away._

_The comic I keep has me in it. I think it’s me. The boy in it smiles a lot, so I’m not sure if it is me sometimes. But the boy in the comic is Steve’s best friend, and I was Steve’s best friend, so the boy must be me. I hide the comic in a special place. I forget where it is._

_I watch the river go by, and I wish more than anything that I could return to Brooklyn, so I can finally rest._

_I wake up in a sagging cot, under a little blanket that smells like urine. I don’t think it’s my urine, but then again, I don’t always remember the things I do._

_It’s quiet._

_I go still._

_No._

_“Longing.”_

_I burst off of the cot, shoving through the first man I find._

_“Rusted!”_

_Have to get out of here—have to—_

_“Seventeen—“_

_There are men—how many, I don’t know how many—_

_“Daybreak—“_

_I slam through, scrambling out of the room, but it’s like there’s weights on my legs. Something’s happening. Something’s happening in my head._

_I go through the first door I find, to the tiny little bathroom. With all my weight, I lean against the door, as they bang against it._

_“Furnace! Nine!”_

_I’m going away. Oh God, Steve, I don’t want to go away again. Don’t let them take me, Steve, don’t let them hurt me again—_

_“Benign! Homecoming!”_

_I turn my back to the door, covering my ears and trying to keep the words out, but I can hear everything and they’re going to hurt me, they’re going to take him away from me again, oh please oh God don’t let this—_

_“One.”_

_I will never forget you, Steve, I will never forget, I will never—_

_“Freight car.”_

_Status._

_Everything is quiet. The soldier stands taller. He does not recall this room. It appears to be a bathroom. How he got here is unknown._

_From the other side of the door, someone says, “Good morning.”_

_It is one of his handlers. He opens the door, and replies automatically._

_“Ready to comply.”_


	28. The Fight

We’re in the air.

            I can tell from the sound, from the movement under my feet.

            I lift my head, and the first thing I see is Sam, sitting across from me. His lip is split, and he looks sincerely pissed at his lot in life. He raises his hands an inch to show me that he’s handcuffed, the metal attached to a hook between his legs.

            Taking in my situation, I find that we’re in the back of a modified quinjet. I’ve studied the schematics of SHIELDs’, and flown in several of HYDRAs’. This looks slightly larger, with enough space for storage behind where we’re sitting, or maybe even rooms.

            Steve’s up front with the pilot. I can see from the light that several hours have passed. We’re headed east, so we’re losing three hours. Right now my head’s a little foggy, so I can’t even calculate what time it could be.

            My left arm is handcuffed to the wall. It’s sending a low grade current through the metal, making it difficult to move. Difficult, but not impossible.

            Steve looks back, and asks, “Are you going to behave?”

            I yank my arm, shattering the cuff. Unbuckling, I go across the aisle to Sam. I get to my knees, murmuring, “You okay?”

            He shrugs. “He got in a lucky shot.”

            I pinch the chain between the cuffs until it snaps. “That’s the best I can do unless you want me getting close to your wrists.”

            Sam shakes his head. “Nah. Think I’ll wait for Captain Out of His Goddamn Mind to come to his senses.” Sam shakes out his arms, giving them a stretch.

            I go back to my seat, sitting against the wall and spreading my knees. I look towards the rear of the jet, feeling how fast we’re moving.

            What an unbelievable predicament.

            Steve walks back to us. “Guys—“

            “The weapons?” I ask Sam.

            He shakes his head. “He let me bring my wings, and he’s got his shield and a bunch of the explosives under lockdown. I saw him rigging them up. He’s got himself a button of his own.”

            “Fantastic.”

            “Guys,” Steve says.

            “Oh, I’m sorry,” Sam snaps. “Now you want to talk without a gun pointed at my face?”

            Steve sighs, dropping his head momentarily. “I’m sorry about—“

            “You know what, Rogers?” Sam points at me. “ _He’s_ got his head on straighter than you right now. That’s saying something, man. That’s saying something.”

            Steve sits down at the end of the seats, away from us. I’m not going to bother trying to fight him right now. I’m too livid. I can’t believe he hit Sam. I can’t believe he pulled a goddamn gun on Sam. Me, fine, whatever. But Sam—

            “Tell me what I do,” Steve says. “Tell me what you would do if you were me.”

            “I would _get help_ ,” Sam says. “I’m not a damn fool who needs to be Jesus, walking on water and sacrificing himself to save us for all our sins. I’d say fuck MODOK, and I’d figure it out. I would call whoever the hell got us this bird, and I would say, hey, that whole thing in Asia is a smoke and mirrors show for what’s really about to happen, which is a terror attack on US soil. In New York. _Again_. I would admit that I’m not the only thing standing between us and armageddon and I’d call that ugly head’s bluff and call in the cavalry.”

            “And if I do that and he kills them all?”

            Sam exhales through his nose. “Then he kills them all. You’re not responsible for what _he_ does. You’re responsible for yourself and your decisions, and you are making a really idiotic one right now, Steve. We need help. You’ve always listened to me before. I’ve always had your back. I need you to trust me. Don’t do this.”

            Steve leans forward, gently chewing on his lip. He glances over at Sam with a faint smile. “I just can’t live with it, Sam. What’ll happen if I don’t and he goes through with it. I can’t risk it.”

            With a shake of the head, Sam grimaces. He looks at the floor, and says, “Consider this my resignation. You want to kill yourself, I don’t have to watch.”

            Steve nods. “Okay,” he says quietly.

            We all sit here, gently bobbing to and fro as we part the air.

            Steve clears his throat, running a hand over his cheek. “I was hoping…that maybe one of you could tell Sharon—“

            “No,” I say.

            His eyes meet mine.

            I fix him with a steady gaze. “We are not telling your child bride a thing, Rogers. Like there was anything to tell. You missed out on the love of your life, so you upgraded to the next model. Just like I died, so you moved onto Sam. Except in the case of the Carters, you moved onto a pale imitation of the real thing. Peggy Carter was a hell of a lady. And I’m sure the girl’s good at her job, and she’s nice enough. But don’t pretend like she means a thing to you. She’s just there because the hero needs a girl, and she looks good on your arm. Remember—we’ve seen you together. I’ve given more enthusiastic tongue to dogs. We are not playing into this story you’ve got yourself plugged into. This isn’t you staying on the radio with Peg til you die. This is you offing yourself and asking us to say sorry to a girl who probably only knows your middle name because she read it in a book.” I shake my head, looking at the roof of the jet. “No thank you, boss.”

            The air fills with a pregnant pause.

            When Steve speaks again, I can tell he’s probably trying not to make fists. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?”

            No. Christ no.

            But Sam catches my eye. He thinks that maybe I have a shot at talking him out of it, even if he didn’t. Like that’s possible. I’m the sociopath of the group, not the therapist. I’m not able to talk anyone out of doing shit.

            The thing is, I can’t help myself. “Sure.”

            Steve pushes himself abruptly to his feet, and rounds a corner. I get up, following him. Sam whispers, “Bucky.” I glance at him, and he gives me a pleading look. Yeah. I know.

            Steve’s waiting with the door open. It’s a pretty small room, smaller than the bedroom we had back in Brooklyn. No windows and no way to escape one another. Great.

            He closes the door.

           

Steve turns around and says, “Whatever it is, you better get it off your chest now.”

            “For tomorrow we shall die?”

            “Bucky—“

            “Oh, now I’m Bucky again? Not who are you, or what are you? I get to be Bucky? Thanks, Captain, I really appreciate the gesture.”

            I’m stalking back and forth in the small space. I’m good at staying still, I’ve always been so good at staying still, but I don’t think I can right now. I think that if I stay still, I’ll explode.

            I think I’m a bomb waiting to go off.

            “I don’t _want_ to do this—“ Steve tries to say.

            “The hell you don’t. You’ve been waiting for this your whole life. The only problem is it didn’t stick last time, so you’re going to make sure it does this go-around. Even if it doesn’t do a thing. Even if he’s not _there_. Did you even think about that? He’s not there, you go running in, and wherever he really is, he sees you and sends you to kingdom come with the rest of Vinegar Hill. Huh? Did that cross your mind? Or are you still that thick kid who just couldn’t get it through his head that he’d always be 4F?”

            I hate how he’s looking at me, patient and sad. “Bucky—I need to know—that you’re going to be okay after this—“

            My hands come out so fast and hard that when he hits the wall I think for a second he’ll leave a dent in it.

            Pulling back, I hike my shoulders up, shying away from him. I can’t look at his face, and I can’t stop jittering either.

            “You don’t get to ask that,” I whisper. “You don’t dare.”

            Steve stays against the wall, giving me space like I’m a spooked horse. “You’re the one who taught me the mission comes first. You’re the one who taught me about the needs of the many. You’re the one who told me to make hard choices.”

            “Fuck the mission! There is no mission. You—are not a soldier. Jesus, you’ve never been a soldier. You don’t even realize that, do you? All this time, you don’t realize—you were an arrogant kid who thought you knew better than everyone. You’ve never been able to take an order in your whole life. Not from me, not from your commanding officers, not even from the goddamn world. Take it from someone who was a soldier and nothing else for seven decades: you are not one! There’s no mission, there’s just you, trying to prove that you’re worth something, and you need to _stop_. You need to stop because this time you really are going to get killed. You’re the most predictable man on the planet, and MODOK is going to _kill_ you, and he’ll get away with it, and just move onto someone else.”

            “I don’t believe that.”

            “ _I_ believe it! I know it! Why won’t you listen to me? When have I ever—“ I press my fists up to my forehead.

            Status.

Heart beat and rate of breath elevated. Blood pressure rising. I’m clinging to control by the edge of my fingernails, and I’m about to lose it.

            Dropping my arms, I take in a breath. “Do you know what it’s like—to realize you’ve died for nothing?”

            Steve’s eyes harden. For a second, it looks like he thinks I’m making fun of him. “Well, I went into the ice thinking I’d stopped HYDRA, so maybe, yeah.”

            “Think about the moment when you found out that HYDRA still ran the world. That’s where I am right now, pal. I’m watching it happen in slow motion, and ain’t a goddamn thing I can do about it. Because you’re Steve fucking Rogers, and you think you’re God. You don’t think anyone could be right but you. So everything I’ve done isn’t worth a thing. It’s all been pointless.” I start to laugh, turning away from him. “My whole life has been _pointless_.”

            Voice raising, Steve argues, “Your life was not pointless—“

            Rounding on him, I reply, “My life was protecting you! My whole life was keeping you safe, keeping you alive, and none of that matters to you. I died for nothing. And I didn’t even die. How sad is that? How goddamn sad is the story of my life? You want to know what the real kick in the nuts is? I’d do it all again. Just like you’re you and no one could ever change your mind, no one could keep me from doing all I could to save you. Even knowing what I know.”

            Raising his shoulders, Steve says, “What do you know?”

            “That it didn’t mean a thing to you.”

            He takes in a breath, jaw set. “Don’t say that.”

            “It didn’t. Not a second.”

            “That’s not true.”

            “Of course it is—“

            “No—“

            “You didn’t even look for me,” I whisper.

            It’s like I feel the room get sharper. I said it. Everything is more in focus. The holes I usually carry are filling with rage.

            Steve is gazing at me, his mouth working. Those pretty blue eyes. So remorseful. “Bucky,” he breathes.

            “You didn’t even look,” I say, shaking my head. “Not for a day. Not for a second. You didn’t even try to find my body to send back to my family. All those years later, you running around the world trying to find me, but when it counted, when it really counted, what did you do? Huh, Steve? What did you do?” I’m laughing again. “When I went out the side of that train and I was hanging on, you didn’t even try to get to me first. You took the time to take out another guy. _Then_ —then you came after me. Those three extra seconds—that’s all it would have taken. Three more seconds, and I wouldn’t have fell. You know what no one ever asks? How much was the life of Bucky Barnes worth? Because you know what the answer is? Not a thing. Not. A goddamn. Thing.”

            “That’s not how it was,” Steve says, going white. “If I didn’t kill him, he would have killed us both—“

            It comes out of me with all the force of a missile.

            “YOU LET ME FALL!” I scream.

            We lean away from each other like a shockwave was set off from the middle of the room. Steve drops back against the wall. I let out a groan, curling a hand to my stomach.

            He’s shaking his head, like he doesn’t want it to be true, and I can’t let him have that, he’s had everything else, but he’s not having this.

            Advancing on him, I say, “You didn’t care if I lived or died, you didn’t care, so don’t you tell me how you think it was, because _I’m_ the one who fell! I screamed and you did nothing, you left me behind, you left me like I was nothing after everything, after everything ever since we were kids and you promised, you _promised_ me you would always come for me, you came for me in the middle of a fucking HYDRA base when everyone said I was dead, you still came for me, so why didn’t you come for me?!”

            I grab him by the front of his shirt, and he gasps, but he doesn’t try to stop me. “Bucky, I saw you die—“

            “You saw me _fall_!” I roar in his face. “You saw me _fall_ , you saw me fall off that goddamn train, but you didn’t see me—“

            I snap and punch a hole through the wall beside his head.

            Then I grab his shirt with both hands again, and I say, “Do you know how long it took? Do you know how long it took for me to believe you weren’t coming? Do you think that I just fell and hit my head and didn’t remember anything, a nice blank slate for them to start over with?” Curling my hands in his shirt, I can even feel my teeth vibrating. “Two and a half months. Every day. Every day, they tortured me. They worked on my arm without anesthetic. They kept me awake for days, and days, and days, the whole time just working me, trying to unmake me, and every day, I told them the same thing. I told them you were coming for me. They said you never even tried to look for me, but I said that’s not true, because how could it possibly be true? Steve will always come for me, he promised, and I’ll always come for him, he knows that, so he’s coming for me, of course he’s coming for me. It took until you _died_ for it to even sink in that you hadn’t bothered. All the news reels—no one even mentioned me. It was all about how heartbroken Peggy Carter must be. The love of your life. And meanwhile, there I am, all by myself, and they’re _working_ me every second of the day and I held up for you, I endured things that no one—no one on this fucking planet could endure—and I did it for you, because I believed in you. Never thinking about how you didn’t even question why they held me away from the others the first time. How you didn’t care, because you were thinking of other things. I held on, when I couldn’t remember my mother, my sister or my brothers, my own fucking name—I held on for you.” My jaw feels sick, and I scream in his face, “And you LEFT ME!”

            Now he’s just mouthing my name, and I feel his hands fluttering against my wrists, but I’m not thinking about that, I’m not thinking at all.

            “I held on for you, and then they broke me with you. That’s how they did it. That’s how they made me the Winter Soldier. You broke my fucking heart and they scooped my soul out and put HYDRA in and all because you were too busy playing soldier, chasing Peggy Carter, to ever even think about me. Poor stupid Bucky. Poor stupid Bucky, who loved you more than anyone, who did everything for you, would have died for you, who was dumb enough to think you ever even noticed. Poor Bucky. Poor Bucky.”

            My eyes aren’t focusing. I can’t see him as clearly. It’s like I’m seeing through a veil.

            “Bucky—please—“

            I throw him back against the wall, rage returning in a wave. I pin him with all the strength of my metal arm, feeling the bone of his body trying to give way. “You were the love of my _life_! You got your girl, you got to be the hero, you got to save the world, and all I got was hurt! My whole life has been loving you and paying the price for it! And now you’re just going to leave me again! I wish—“ I throw the words out at him as loudly as I’m able, banging him back against the wall with every exclamation. “I wish I _had_ died! I wish I’d never fucking met you! I wish you’d never come out of the ice, that you’d _died_ there, that you’d died at fucking birth! I _HATE_ YOU! I WISH I’D NEVER FUCKING LOVED YOU!”

            I smash his head back against the wall, and then I shove away from him because I can’t bear it anymore, this tsunami of emotion and rage and hurt. I stumble away, not knowing what to do. Putting my hands to the sides of my head, I let out a long, wailing scream, the kind that I couldn’t hold back when they’d reset me, only this time I wish, I can only wish that someone would wipe me clear because there’s too much inside and it hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_.

            When it finally stops, I fall against the opposite wall, hiding my head with my arms. I can hardly breathe. I have to force my body to do it, tell my body to do it, because it doesn’t want to do it on its own.

            I’m pulsing all over. Like my heart is in every inch of my body.

            I stay here, trying to find a way back into myself, while Steve starts making these little, unfamiliar sounds. They’re like small gasps. I don’t know what he’s doing. I make myself turn around and look at him.

            Steve’s slid down the wall. He’s sitting there, defeated, and he’s sobbing softly. I see tears hang from his eyelashes, then drop down onto the floor.

            I can’t take it. I smash my fist into the wall and barge out of the room.

            I go clear across the jet, to the same room on the opposite side. Slamming the door behind myself, I find that there’s almost no room, that the place is filled with supplies and ammo. I climb onto a box and make myself small.

            Putting my fists to my forehead, I rock back and forth violently. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’m doing.

            This is too much. It’s too much for my head. There’s already more in here than there should be. I can’t take it. I can’t.

            And then, because things couldn’t possibly get worse, I get a crack, and I remember the Spring Formal of 1934.


	29. The Kiss

_I rap a couple knocks on the door first, shouting, “Stevie! Where are you?” I try the door, and find that it’s locked. With a roll of the eyes, I kick aside the rock they use to cover the key, and unlock the door. I put the key back in place, then head inside._

_“Steve,” I call. The Rogers’ place is small, but they always keep it immaculate. They have to, because of Steve’s lungs. He so much as sees dust, I swear he starts wheezing. Lately, Mrs. Rogers hasn’t sounded so good either. “Stevie G! Where are you hiding? Shake a leg!”_

_I lean into the kitchen. He’s sitting there with his head down, in his good shirt with the sleeves that actually aren’t too big for his arms, that I know he’s too embarrassed to admit came from the little kid’s section at the shop. For Steve, he’s basically togged to the bricks._

_“Stevie,” I say, walking over to him. I give his shoulder a light shake, then grab one of the kitchen chairs. Slinging it around, I sit on it backwards, and raise my brows. “What’s with the face, sourpuss? What’s got you so evil?”_

_He’s playing with his hands. He’ll do that sometimes when he’s really nervous. His fingers weave together, then he’ll rub his thumb over his palm. He thinks I don’t notice. I always notice._

_“You want to chicken out, don’t you.”_

_That gets his dander up. “I don’t want to chicken out of nothin’, Buck,” Steve says, blue eyes hard._

_“Yeah? Then why are you sitting here instead of coming over to my place so my ma can ooh and ah over you and talk about how proud she is that you’re going to your first real dance? I mean—other than it’s embarrassing as hell. But I’m proud of you too, Stevie.” I give his elbow a soft smack, then rest my arms on the back of the chair._

_He looks so hesitant. I know he’s scared, but trying to get Steve to admit he’s scared of anything is impossible. Last year, he was so sick that he couldn’t get out of bed for a week. His skin was actually grey. Every day we were all praying for him, and I was praying the hardest, night and day, waking up in the middle of the night and praying for him then too, even though God and I usually aren’t on speaking terms. On the fifth day, when he hadn’t been able to say anything for hours, blinkers just following us around, I asked him, because I had to know, “Stevie—are you afraid to die?”_

_And he shook his head at me, beckoning me closer. I leaned down, and he rasped in my ear, “Scared the Dodgers won’t make the Series.”_

_That’s Steve. Any time someone even brings up how sick he gets, he makes a joke about the goddamn Dodgers. He’s not scared of anything, or if he is, he sure as hell isn’t going to tell anyone. Not even me._

_“Steve,” I say. “They’re just girls.”_

_“Easy for you to say,” he mutters glumly._

_“I thought you liked Theresa. She’s a real nice girl. And a looker too.”_

_“I do like her.”_

_“Of course you do. I know your type. Brunette. Curls. Plus, she’s shy, like you.”_

_“I’m not—“_

_“When it comes to this, you’re plenty shy, Steve.”_

_“Not everybody—not everybody’s like you, Buck.”_

_“What? Smart? Smooth?” I straighten my tie. “Devilishly good looking?”_

_“I think you left out ‘modest,’” the kid cracks back._

_“So what, I have an easier time talking to girls. That’s just—practice.”_

_“And getting them into bed, that’s just practice too?”_

_I let that go a second. I’ve been with two women now. Both of them older. There was Emily McConnell, who died last month, and who I will always love. And then there was Rosalie McGill, who’s a senior and all kinds of trouble. Well, the kind of trouble I like._

_“Sure,” I say._

_“Yeah, it’s got nothing to do with you looking like that and me looking like this.”_

_Frowning, I murmur, “Hey.” I tug on his sleeve a little. “Don’t get down on yourself like that. You look just fine.”_

_“Bucky,” Steve says desperately, “I’m never gonna be any bigger than I am right now. Doctor said that. And my lungs aren’t right, and I’m almost blind in this goddamn eye—“_

_Him cursing is what tells me how really upset he is, and I cut in, soothingly, “Stevie. Hey. C’mon, now. Theresa likes you plenty. Just the way you are. And she should. You’re perfect.”_

_Steve barks. “Everyone thinks I’m a wet sock.”_

_“I think you’re perfect,” I say, and I mean it. I’ve loved Steve for as long as I knew I could love a boy as much as I could love a girl. He’s my best guy, even if he doesn’t know it._

_“I think you’re nutso.” He shifts, uncomfortable, and says, “You really…think Theresa likes me?”_

_“Yeah, pal, of course I do.”_

_I love Steve in an unselfish way. I love him so much I want to share him with everyone. I want him to be happy more than I want him to be mine. If Theresa DePaolo likes him, then I’ll move heaven and earth to make it work for the both of them._

_“I like her too,” Steve mumbles._

_A thought hits me, and I say, “Jesus, Steve!” He whacks my knee. He was an altar boy, until he had to give it up, because it might be the only time the kid ever listened to me. “What if I marry Denise and you marry Theresa? Then we’d really be family. Our kids would be cousins.”_

_Steve looks at me funny a second, then shrugs, “Bucky, you’re already my family.”_

_I grin. “You’re so soft, Rogers.”_

_“Shut up,” he says, but he’s smiling._

_Then he starts twisting his hands together again._

_I don’t say anything. I know Steve like I know myself. I probably even know him better. I know when to tease, when to push, and I know when not to flap my gums, even if my ma doesn’t believe that._

_Steve swallows, and says, “What if she…wants to…uh….”_

_Snickering, I say, “Hell, Rogers, she’s not the kind of girl to go all the way on the first date.”_

_“Bucky!” Steve yelps, going red all the way to the tips of his ears. “That’s not what—that isn’t what I was saying.”_

_“What are you saying? Cause it sounded like—“_

_It bursts out of him. “I never kissed a girl before.”_

_He grimaces at the ground, his too big hands almost going white at the knuckles. His cheeks are a dark, angry red, and it hurts me to see him this unhappy._

_Sobering, I say, “Yeah. I know.”_

_“What am I supposed to do?”_

_“If she wants you to kiss her? You kiss her.”_

_“Yeah, but what if she wants me to kiss her and I do it wrong? Everybody at school already thinks I’m a freak. If they find out I can’t even do this—“_

_“Whoa, calm down.” He’s so panicked about it that I just shrug and say, “You’re worried about not knowing how to kiss, I’ll kiss you.”_

_The second it’s out of my mouth, I want to punch myself in the face._

_“Oh, shut up, Bucky.”_

_“No, I’m serious.” What in the hell am I doing?_

_He’s giving me a confused look, because of course he should, and I can’t believe I’ve been so reckless. “What, are you crazy?”_

_I just roll my eyes. “Please. If anybody’s not going to make fun of you, and who knows a hell of a lot more about girls than you do, it’s me.”_

_“Buck—c’mon, that ain’t right—“_

_“Oh, please,” I mutter, getting up out of my chair. “Who do you think taught me how to kiss?”_

_Perplexed, Steve asks, “Who?”_

_“Tim O’Hara,” I reply, turning Steve’s chair. Getting down on my knees in front of him, I shake my head at him. “You tell anybody about that, I’ll split your lip myself.”_

_Steve’s staring at me, trying to figure out if my cheese has slid off my cracker. Answer’s yes, but I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear here. Everyone at school, in the neighbourhood, knows what a reputation I’ve got with girls. Between the two of us, I’m not the one who’s going to be called a gunsel if anyone ever brings this up._

_I shrug, like this is nothing. “What?”_

_“I—I dunno.”_

_“So first thing.” I stand as tall as I can on my knees, which brings me up just under Steve’s height. “Yeah, Theresa’s small, so this is about right. Okay. If you’re not sure a girl wants you to kiss her, you ask. Just say, ‘May I kiss you?’”_

_“Do you ask?”_

_“No, because I know when a girl wants me to kiss her. You’re sure as hell not going to know.”_

_“Okay,” Steve says cautiously. “Then what?”_

_“Then you move in closer to her—“ I sigh, giving Steve’s knees a tap to spread them apart. He’s still flushed, watching me wide eyed. I shuffle up between his knees, like this is nothing at all, like my heart isn’t pounding like hoof beats at the race track. “Then you reach out, and you take her like this.”_

_I slip my hands up to cup Steve’s face. He is so fine boned and delicate that it really is like a lot of girls’ faces I’ve touched. I hook my thumbs in front of his ears, the rest of my fingers behind._

_“Just like this. Nice and gentle. You don’t want to hurt her. And see, you can kind of—“ I tilt his head one way, then the other. “And you’re not covering her ears either. I’ve seen some jerks do that. They look like they’re trying to smother a dame all over, and the girl sure as hell isn’t having fun.” I stroke my thumb over his cheek. “Like this, okay?”_

_Steve’s eyes look so big. I realize his pupils are large as dinner plates, and he’s not really breathing._

_I let him go, settling back a bit. “Hey,” I say, hitting his knee with my fist. “I’m sorry, pal. Don’t sweat it. We can stop, I didn’t mean to scare you—“_

_I start getting up, and Steve says stubbornly, “No, I’m fine.” I check his face, then settle back down._

_Okay, that wasn’t exactly fair. For Steve, that’s basically like saying I double dared him._

_Going tall on my knees again, I give my face a rub. “Okay, you give it a go on me. I just shaved, so you’re lucky. Honest, though, Stevie, you seen Mrs. DePaolo? You marry Theresa, you could be living with the bearded lady in twenty years.”_

_Steve rolls his eyes, then he starts to reach out. He stops abruptly, then wipes them off on his pants. “Sorry. They’re sweaty.”_

_“You’re such a gentleman.”_

_“Shut up,” he mutters, as he puts his hands on my face._

_He does it just like I did, and perfect, on the first try. I close my eyes automatically. He has such skinny hands, but they feel so good._

_“Is that okay?”_

_Opening my eyes, I make my smile encouraging instead of beaming at him like I want to. “Yeah, that’s good.”_

_“Then what?”_

_“Well then you kiss her, pal.”_

_“How the hell do I do that?”_

_I pull his hands down, just because the feel of them there is making me all kinds of things happen down low, and I’m already taking the poor kid for a walk. “Well, you’re gonna want to go fast, but she’s not going to. But you can’t just not move your lips either. What I’d do at first, is leave your lips in the same place for three seconds, counting it off in your head, while still moving a little, and then you readjust.”_

_“What?” Steve squeaks._

_“Steve, you’re a smart guy. It’s not algebra. C’mon. You hold your head like this for three seconds—“ I tilt my head. “While you’re touching your lips to hers, kind of feeling her out. That’s basically what kissing is. You’re feeling a girl’s mouth with your mouth. Your mouth can move, so feel her with it.” He’s blushing again, which is so goddamn adorable it’s a sin. I mean, less of a sin than me wanting to kiss my best friend who’s a guy, but still, it’s a sin. “At first, it’s easier to count, but then you get the hang of it, and you just do what feels comfortable.”_

_“Be serious with me, Buck. You think I’ll ever feel comfortable? Doing anything?”_

_“Well, you’re a hell of a martyr, so you’ve got the one thing going for you.” He squawks, and I just grin. “So? Want to run through it from the top? You’re you, and just imagine I’m Theresa DePaolo, batting those pretty brown eyes at you.” I flutter my lashes at him._

_“You’re ridiculous.”_

_“Takes one to know one. You ready?”_

_Steve frowns, then nods. I wait a second, then lift a brow, expectantly. He sighs. “Oh Sister Mary Francis, I’m such a wet sock.”_

_“Okay, let me start you off.” I pitch my voice higher. “Gee Steven, I had such a lovely time with you at the dance.”_

_He starts to giggle._

_“Thank you for walking me to the door. Oh, would you look at that. It looks like your friend has his tongue in my sister’s mouth—“ Steve punches me on the shoulder. I grin, regaining my balance. “I don’t know what I’d ever do if a boy tried to kiss me.”_

_I had to basically hold a flashing sign, but Steve asks, “May I kiss you?”_

_“You may,” I say coquettishly._

_He reaches his hands out to my face. He leans forward slightly, and for a moment, we look at each other. I see the green flecks in the blue on his eyes. I wonder if my eyes look grey or blue right now. It always depends on the light._

_Steve blinks, and whispers, “May I kiss you?”_

_I drop the fake voice, and nod into his hands._

_He crosses the distance between us, and touches his mouth to mine._

_The moment our lips our together, he lets out a little whimper. It cuts me from top to bottom like a thousand splinters, and I reach up for the bottom of his elbow to steady him. Kissing his bottom lip, I whisper, “Slow, Stevie.”_

_My nose is nestled against his, and I can almost hear him counting in his head before he repositions his mouth on mine. It is so sweet, so Steve, that I can’t help myself. I lean into the kiss, inhaling so I can say I’ve tasted the air that’s come from inside him._

_He repositions five times, six, and then my hands are sliding up his sides. I’m moving closer, until I’m flush against the chair. I run my hands from his hips up his ribs, then down again. So delicate and small, exactly what I want. His hands slip from my face to the back of my head, fingers tangling into my hair as we lose the count of three and just kiss one another._

_My arms are wrapped around him. I’m holding him against my body, cherishing every single second of him, for the first time in my life as close to Steve as I could possibly be. His lips part against mine, and I take yet another chance and lick against them._

_I’m pressed between his legs, and I feel the little twitch there when my tongue touches his mouth. Steve pushes himself closer to me, legs pinning me and his body taking over, doing what it wants to do, and I’m so happy, because I want him to want me, and I can feel how he wants me, and I want him so much—_

_He’s pushing away from me so fast that I’m blinking and empty handed and not quite sure what just happened._

_Steve looks terrified, and I don’t know what I did wrong. I mean—okay, maybe this was wrong but—but Steve knows I love him, he knows I’d never do anything to hurt him._

_“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t. I can’t.”_

_He turns the chair back to the table, hiding himself from the waist down under it._

_“Okay,” I say, dizzy, but I always do what Steve wants. And Steve has decided he doesn’t want me. Or at least, he doesn’t want this. I have to put my hand on the table to push myself up. My legs feel like jelly._

_He has his face in his hands, and he’s shaking. I want to apologize, but I don’t. I can’t apologize for this. I’ve always given Steve what he wanted. And he did want this. Even if he’s scared now._

_“We can’t ever do that again,” Steve says thickly. “We can’t ever_ talk _about that again.”_

_I swallow, and step back. “Okay.” I move around the table. I’m not exactly sure how I’m even walking with a heart as broken as mine, but I’m doing it nonetheless._

_“Bucky, I’m sorry.”_

_I can’t look at him. Instead, I just shrug, and say, “Don’t worry, Stevie. I’ll always take care of you.”_

_I have to make tracks then, because I can’t stand it anymore, and I hear Steve behind me, murmuring almost vicious prayers into his clasped hands._

_I do what Steve wants. We pretend it never happened, pretend everything’s normal at the dance, pretend everything’s normal every time we’re together after that, until finally everything is normal again, and that day seems like a dream._

_We don’t talk about the day of the Spring Formal again for over eighty years._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know--what's this tale of bittersweet teenage love doing so close to the climax of the story? Maybe to just prepare us all for the chapter tomorrow when everything finally comes to a head.  
> I'm grateful for each and every one of you who've made it this far. If you know somebody you think would like the story, I'd love for you to pass it along. Also, I'm always looking for geeks of all stripes to come visit me on Tumblr (The link doesn't usually want to work thanks to the dash, but that's me if it doesn't want to work and you need to just copy/paste):  
> [e-sebastian.tumblr.com](e-sebastian.tumblr.com)  
> Okay, I'll see you tomorrow for the big show.


	30. Steve Rogers' Worth

When we land, I’m not surprised to find us on one of the old docks on the Navy Yard Basin. West side, though. Closer to Plymouth.

            I don’t say a word. I slip out of the room where I’ve spent the past few hours. I found that my mask was still in my coat. He took all my other weapons, but left me that one. I don’t know if that was a pointed commentary or what. I don’t really care. I used a pen to write on the back of the picture of Lidiya and I from the old days before folding the photo up and stuffing it back in my pocket. I found a knife in the supply room, and pocketed that, but didn’t bother with anything else. Not like I can carry a rifle in Brooklyn anyways.

            Steve is standing with the pilot, passing her something that looks like a playing card, or maybe even a trading card. As I walk off the jet, I hear him say, “I don’t know if he’ll want this, but, uh…I signed it.”

            She replies, “I know for a fact that he’ll love it.”

            Sam’s already on the ground. He’s got his arms wrapped around himself, his pack on his back in its carrying case.

            I walk over to him, and he says dubiously, “You okay?”

            “I think we both know I haven’t been okay since 1945, Sammy.”

            “Jesus, I’ll take _Pigeon_ over that—“

            Taking his elbow in my metal hand, I drop my voice beneath my breath. “Need a favour.”

            He looks at me, and I see him wanting to just walk away. He’s been in it so long, though, that he can’t help himself. “What do you need?”

            “Stay.” The way he pulls his head back, I know I’m about to get a whirlwind of invective, so I whisper, “ _I_ need you to stay.”

            And it could be that he says, _why the hell would I stay for you_ or _are you out of your mind_. I’m prepared for him to leave us here, and I wouldn’t blame him if he did. Only I picked my words, and I mean it: I _need_ him to stay.

            I can’t do this by myself.

            Sam looks at me a long moment, then nods. He reaches out his hand, and I take it. Our fingers curl into each other like we’re making one fist.

            “21:30,” Steve says behind us.

            I hear the jet slowly rise into the air. I don’t turn to look. Letting Sam go, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets.

            “We’ll stay with you,” I murmur. “Until it’s time to go.”

            Then I walk away to sit on an old barrel, because I still don’t think I can look at him.

 

It takes me awhile. It’s probably coming up on ten before I go find him.

            He’s sitting at the end of the dock on a crumbling piece of asphalt, looking across the water to Manhattan. The river’s all lit up in green and yellow underneath the black. All the lights. This is the night I knew as a boy. It’s different now, sure, but it’ll always be the same. No matter the year, no matter the decade, no matter the century.

            I sit down a few feet away, propping my arms on my knees. Steve’s face is reflected in the glow of the city. The light flickers on my arm.

            “Can’t ask you to forgive me,” he says. “Too much time has passed. I tried to make it right after DC. But there’s no making it right.”

            “No.” I shake my head. “We’ve lived too long, Steve.”

            “You can’t come with me.”

            “Wasn’t going to ask.”

            I can tell he’s surprised, but he simply nods.

            “I don’t want to die,” I say honestly. “I’ve lived too long, but still—I don’t want to die.” I snort softly, tilting my head. “All the times I wished I would. All the times it would have been better if I had. Should have put a gun in my mouth the last time I was over there—“ I jut my chin across the river. “But I was too much of a mess.”

            “Were…you there after DC?”

            “No. ’73.”

            “Why were you there?”

            “Spaghetti.”

            Steve’s face screws up. “Huh?”

            I wrap my arms around my shins and ask, “You remember the World of Tomorrow?”

            He looks down, and says, “Night you shipped out.”

            Confused, I look at him. “What?” Then I remember. “No, Steve. World of Tomorrow, not when Stark took it over and made it a monument to himself. World’s Fair, 1939. Opening day, you and me.”

            A smile spreads across Steve’s face, and he looks about ten years younger. “Of course I remember. We didn’t just go opening day, we went two other times too.”

            “Yeah, but the first day.”

            “Oh, that was great. It wasn’t even done yet but it was so great.” He leans towards me. “We saw Roosevelt. Only time I ever saw him in person.”

            “Not even in your war bond days?”

            “No, he had bigger things on his plate than a flying monkey like me.” Steve stretches out his legs, and nods. “Opening day, 1939. The world’s first science fiction convention. You were so excited.”

            “The first time they showed TV in public. And everybody thought it was a scam, so everywhere they had it so you could step in front of a camera, and you’d see yourself on the TV. We did that on the way home, you remember? Man, that was one of the neatest things I’d ever seen.”

            Leaning back on his hands, Steve chimes in, “You had this big stupid smile on your face all day. You were like a little kid. I don’t think I’d ever seen you like that, even when you _were_ a kid. You loved all that stuff. What the world was going to look like. What the future was gonna hold.”

            “And on the way home, we stopped at Carmelo’s, and we each had this huge plate of spaghetti. Remember that?”

            Steve stares blankly across the water, then he laughs. “Jesus, yeah I do. I splashed sauce all up and down my good shirt.”

            “Yeah you did.”

            “You laughed at me.”

            “Of course I did. Then I went and sweet talked the waitress into giving us some soda water, and we tried to get the stains out in the bathroom.”

            Steve runs his hands over his shaved head. “God. God, I haven’t thought about that in years. You and me. Opening day of the World’s Fair. And spaghetti.”

            “Yeah. So that’s why I was in Manhattan in 1973.”

            “I still don’t get it.”

            “In sixty nine years with HYDRA, I disobeyed my orders twice. Second time was in DC, when I didn’t kill you. The first time—I was out in California on a mission. I wasn’t set to report to my handlers for an hour or so, and I was hungry, so I got some lunch. When I was with them, all I ever got was this protein mush, so I’m not even sure when the last time I had real food was. I asked the waitress what was good, and she said spaghetti. So I got the spaghetti, and put it in my mouth, and about two seconds later, I’m thinking about World of Tomorrow, and like that—“ I snap my finger. “Twenty eight years of conditioning disappears.”

            “What?”

            “That not in the file you read?” He shakes his head, and I shrug. “I guess they kept it off books, didn’t want people knowing I was capable of breaking out. I had no idea who I was, or what the hell was going on. I wasn’t even allowed to think of myself in the first person, so I’m swinging back and forth between ‘I don’t know what’s happening’ and ‘the soldier should return to the extraction point for reset.’ But I was shaken so hard that I got on the first bus out of there. Ran clear across the country without knowing why, and then I got there.” I point across the river to FDR Drive. “And the second I looked over here, the second I saw home, I remembered you. I was still pretty shaky on myself, but I remembered you, except I knew you were dead. I kept trying to get across the bridge, but HYDRA was everywhere looking for me. Every time I got near it, they were there. I was just waiting to get home, get back here so I could die, but I couldn’t remember my name most days. And before I could figure out a way across, they took me down. Used the words, turned me back.” I look up at the night sky, obscured by all the city lights. “So this is the first I’ve been home since 1942.”

            We sit here, breathing in the water and the air and the faint sickly scent of chemicals coming off the old dock.

            Clearing my throat, I say, “After my tantrum on the jet, I finally remembered about the Spring Formal.” Steve’s head drops immediately. I don’t know if it’s from shame or regret. “Am I just not remembering, or was that the only time?”

            When he speaks, it’s steady. “It was the only time.” I nod, and he says, “Bucky—“

            “That’s for the best,” I say, and he shuts up. He wants to say more, but I won’t let him. “It was bad enough, you and me. We’re too dangerous together as it is.” I push myself to my feet, and have a look around, hands on my hips. “Who knew two kids from Vinegar Hill would fuck up the world this bad?”

            I leave him alone.

 

I drop down by Sam, who says, “You have a plan, right?”

            “Know what my plan is?” I look over at him. “Put on your goddamn wings and get ready to fly me the hell out of here when MODOK blows it to smithereens.”

            “This—is lunacy.”

            “Sam—put on your wings.” He’s not doing it, so I say, “Sam—put on—your goddamn wings. This place is going to blow up in less than an hour.”

            He looks past me to where Steve sits on the edge of the dock, and hisses in disgust. “You know what the bitch of it is?” he says, shedding his coat. “The asshole’s probably going to pull it off. He’s that lucky. He’ll kill himself and MODOK, and World War Three will be averted, and back into the history books he goes.”

            “Yeah,” I say without believing it.

            Sam straps into his pack, fishing out his goggles. “What are you gonna do?”

            “You mean after my best friend dies and takes half of Brooklyn with him?” I shrug. “Dunno. Never really been one for thinking ahead.” I chew on my lip. “Maybe I’ll find somewhere quiet. And be a welder.”

            “A welder.”

            “That’s what I did before the war.” I nod around us. “Doesn’t look like much now, but all this—70 000 people worked here. My father worked here, I worked here. Building ships. We built ships for the English before we got into the war. I’m a hell of a welder.” I lift my metal hand. “Kind of funny that I ended up with a metal hand, actually. I could pick it up again. I’ve always been good with fire.”

            Sam snaps in, and his wings power up. “Don’t talk about fire. I don’t even want to think about these poor bastards who don’t know what kind of trouble they’re in. It’s all I can do to keep my lunch down.”

            To distract him, I say, “You know—I once walked through fire for Steve.”

            “Of course you did.”

            “When he saved me from HYDRA, before the Commandos. I walked through the fire. Then he jumped through it.”

            “Of _course_ he did.”

            “What are you gonna do?”

            Sam tosses his hands in the air. I can see him wondering how the hell he ever got involved in a situation like this in the first place. “Well—once I’m across the river, I figure I’ll fly up to Stark Tower and see if Tony’s got any pull with whoever wants to put me back on the Raft. But no more running. No more hiding. I was not made to be a desperado.” Sam blows out a breath. “I want to see my family,” he says unapologetically.

            I nod.

            “But…if I do get back in the game. And say I need some back up.”

            “I’ll find you.”

            Sam sighs, and says, “Might have to start a new group at the VA. Sidekicks Anonymous.”

            “You were never his sidekick.” I think about it, and bump into him. “You were his wingman.”

            The side of his mouth pulls up. “And you were his right hand man.”

            We both start to snicker, and I am suddenly weirdly grateful for the past few weeks.

            “Fellas?”

            Steve’s standing a few metres from us, his coat in his hand.

            “Time to go,” he says softly.

 

We walk him as far as he’ll let us, which is barely anything, just to where Front Ave meets East Way.

            The way he’s holding his coat, I know that’s where all the explosives are. I could do something about it. But I won’t.

            Steve turns to Sam, who says, “If you dare say ‘I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow,’ I will knock your teeth out.”

            Steve smiles, and shakes his head. “No. Guess I’ll just say—it was a privilege.” He holds his hand out.

            Sam shakes it, and after a moment of looking at each other they actually hug. I just roll my eyes, my hands in my pocket, and I take another step away. I’m surprisingly calm.

            And I also want to run in the other direction.

            I hear Steve whisper in Sam’s ear, “Get him off the island.”

            “Take care, Captain,” Sam says thickly, clapping his shoulder and stepping back.

            “You too.”

            Then he turns to me.

            I just shake my head.

            Steve tries, “Bucky—“

            “Nope.” I shrug. “Ain’t nothing you could say.”

            He steps closer, and I step further back. “It doesn’t mean it’s the end,” Steve says. “If I can’t figure out a way to overpower MODOK on my own, this is the backup, but—this isn’t what I want—“

            “Nobody asked you to jerk me off, Rogers. If you’re going to kill yourself, just go do it. I’m not absolving you of a thing.” I cross my arms. He tries to come closer, but I just shy back. He can’t touch me. Not now.

            Steve stands there a second. Like he doesn’t know what to do. Like after a lifetime of me telling him yes, he just doesn’t understand how ‘no’ works.

            Finally, he moves away from me, and it actually physically hurts. I want to grab him, I want to put him over my shoulder and run as far and fast as I can.

            That’s not how this works, though.

            He gives us a little salute, then says, “See you next time, fellas.” He turns and walks away.

            I try to count the number of times in my life I’ve watched Steve Rogers walk away from me. I remember that every time, in some small way, it always hurt.

            He gets about twenty feet before I call, “Stevie.” My voice cracks.

            He stops, and looks back.

            I swallow, shifting in place a moment. Then I push myself away from where I’m standing and stride forward.

            Halfway to him, I slow. I reach up, fixing my hair. Like I’m a kid again, the way I’d fix my hair before a date. Frowning, unable to look him in the eyes, I walk the rest of the way until I’m standing in front of Steve. He puts his coat over his arm so his hands are free, and waits on me.

            Instead of facing at him, I look down at his right hand. The hand I’ve seen draw and kill and touch and wave. Jiggling my foot a little, I murmur hesitantly, “You—you know, right?”

            I glance up at his face. Steve Rogers. Love of my life. Most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. The best thing about me. Looking back at me like he wishes he could turn back the clock to do it all over again, only this time do it right.

            “Yeah,” he says, and I lower my head again, chewing on my lower lip. “Do—you know?”

            I look up at him. I see what I wish he had just said all those years ago. I wonder how different our lives might have looked if they hadn’t been ruled by fear and stubbornness.

            Nodding once, I swallow hard. My face crumples a little, and he moves closer to me. I make my face stop doing that, and instead I look into his eyes. He’s so close. If he would just—I need him to—

            He puts his hands to my face, like I taught him when we were kids, and he kisses me.

            Steve Rogers. Love of my life.

            I slip my flesh arm up around his neck, my metal arm around his back. This is the air that he breathes, these are the lips his words come from. I kiss him goodbye. And it’s sad, because all goodbye kisses are.

            It lasts a million years, and it only lasts ten seconds. We part, but only at the mouth, and wrap each other up tight. I feel his big hands holding my sides, able to wrap his arms all the way around me. This. This is the moment I’ll remember.

            Who am I kidding? I’ll remember it all.

            I run my hand over the short hair at the back of his head, breathing him in one final time. I kiss his neck, softly, and turn my mouth up against his ear.

            “End of the line,” I whisper, and slide the knife all the way up to the hilt in his lower back.

            He gasps, jerking against me, and I twist.

            When I shove him away, I grab the coat off his arm and pitch it onto a nearby roof. Steve’s fallen onto his back, blood quickly spilling out of him.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Sam yells, but I’m already sprinting across the street.

            I stop, and shout back, “Stabbed him in the kidney, Sam—it’ll kill a regular man in two minutes, but he’s got about four. Get him off the island. I put the map to New York-Presbyterian Hospital in your pocket. Best hospital in the city.” I pull the mask out of my pocket. “Better hurry, Pigeon—MODOK’s gonna be pissed, and Steve’s dying.”

            I put on the mask, and I run.

 

I run into Vinegar Hill. I run through the place I was born and raised and where I suppose I’ll probably die.

            Steve could never understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be unmade and recreated into something else. I understand MODOK like he never could. I know it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference if Steve had blown them both up.

            And I also know that MODOK will be here.

            I run down West Street. I once beat up Lucas Kitener against that wall for giving Steve an asthma attack.

            Of course this is where I die.

            I cut across the houses between West and Little, vaulting myself easily over the fences.

            Then there’s Plymouth.

            There’s the old Hudson Avenue Plant. I remember that being built. Now it’s rusted and fenced in, nothing but a memory.

            This is the street where I lived with Steve. This is where I was happiest.

            It’s dark and late and there’s no one around, but it doesn’t mean that Brooklyn is not filled to the brim around us. This is my place, and his place. I know it like I know him.

            The old building is still there, looking worse for wear.

            I don’t hesitate, I go right through the door. Just grab it and tear it open.

            When I step inside, I see that the interior has been hollowed out. Our little apartment is long gone. All that’s left is a concrete structure in the middle. The door is open, and I see MODOK, hovering a few inches behind a table. Big, stupid red button in the middle. He really does think we’re morons. He’s certainly not wrong.

            I stride up to the open doorway. He doesn’t look too surprised to see me. In fact, he’s smiling slightly. I look up. There’s a scanner of some kind in the doorway. I shrug out of my coat, tossing it aside. Pulling out the bloody knife, I show it to him, then pitch that too. After that, all I can do is show him my hands, because I don’t have a goddamn thing on me.

            He beckons slightly with his claws. I brace myself for some kind of electricity as I step through the doorway, but there’s nothing. Instead, I step up to the table, and look at him.

            He was once a man. Under all that metal and glass, he was a brilliant guy with ideas and hopes, and now he’s just this. And this is pretty fucking awful.

            I don’t bother to look behind me, because I can see the mounted guns in the corner reflected off his face cover. I make a wrong move, I get blown to bits. Sure, I get it.

            Amused, MODOK says, “I calculated the probability of Captain America making the attempt to meet at 96.3%. I estimated that there was a 11% chance that he was prevented by Samuel Wilson.” His eyes gleam. “I estimated that there was a 30% chance of _you_ preventing him—“

            That’s really all I have to hear.

            I slam my right hand down on the button.

            And that—is all I need.

            Because it gives me one second. I see those self-satisfied eyes widen in shock, my metal fist swinging forward as the first explosions begin in the distance. If MODOK really thought there was any chance I wouldn’t stop Steve from showing up here, he’s not nearly as smart as I thought. Either that or it’s just that I’m impossible to predict. Hell, I don’t even know who I am most days.

            So I get my second, I put my fist right through his face until I feel it smash into the back of his skull, and I kill him. After all, the first thing I did with this new hand was break someone’s head—I knew it was capable.

            I say, “Guess you miscalculated.”

            With the last moment of consciousness that he has, the guns start firing. I rip my fist out of MODOK’s face and duck under the table. But the guns stop almost as soon as they start, and it’s me, alone as the door slams shut, sealing me in.

            MODOK was programmed for one enemy. He only understood one enemy. He meant to die here with Steve. Couldn’t let that happen. His body in its suit falls to the ground, as the thing protecting him from the world shuts down. I kick him back against the wall so I don’t have to look at what’s left of his face.

            I feel the floor under me rumbling. There’s the safety protocols I was expecting. MODOK dies, the place blows. Supposed to take Steve with him. Wonder what his plan was if I showed up instead. Not that it matters now. He loses, because Steve lives. His contingencies are so much dust.

            There are two million people in Brooklyn, and MODOK said he’d ruin half the city. I know what the news will read. Crazed villain kills a million in Brooklyn, perishes in blast. No one will know that I pushed the button.

            No one will know I did it for Steve.

            Because the answer to the big question has always been the same for me: all of them.

            Steve Rogers’ life, to me, is worth every single life on this planet. If it was a choice between Steve Rogers and 7.4 billion people, I would burn the world. And not so that he can be the hero, or stop whatever cosmic catastrophe comes our way. No. I did this for purely selfish reasons. I did this because I’ve loved Steve Rogers for a century.

            I don’t want to die. But that’s not what matters. What matters more is that he _lives_.

            Scrambling up on the table, I make myself small as the ground erupts below me. I put my metal arm around my head, and close my eyes, and I think of him. I picture a world where we come home from the war. He is the hero, and I’m just me. I work at the dock, I make things, I love him, and that’s all. If I could dream, I guess that’s what I’d dream of.

            I’m thrown upwards, nothing more than debris. I’m mixing with concrete and metal beams and the air smells of gas, and then I’m falling—

            I’m always falling—


	31. I Am

_I am nineteen years old and dancing with Mrs. Rogers while Steve laughs and the radio plays. She’s been in and out of the hospital all year, and this is the most Steve has smiled in months and they both have the same smile. I spin her around and then pull Steve up to dance with us. She kisses his cheek and kisses mine and calls us her beautiful boys._

_I am twenty years old and it is the first Mother’s Day since Mrs. Rogers died and when I go to check on Steve he’s making her a card like he does every year. I ask if he minds if I sign it too, or if he’d rather I make my own card for her. Every year from then until we go overseas, the card he leaves for her is signed, ‘Love Steve and Bucky.’_

_I am sixteen years old and I’m glad Steve’s yelling at me, I’m happy he is, because I want him to be hurt. I want him so badly that it tears holes into me, and I want him screaming because I’ve been with someone else. I’ll always have this power over him, because people want me and don’t want him, and some days, if I try hard enough, it takes some of the sting out of knowing he’ll never really be mine._

_I’m twenty four years old, sitting in this stupid art class with Steve, and the guy who runs the place comes in and interrupts the teacher and tells us that our country has been attacked. We leave because everyone leaves, and all night Steve can only talk about trying to enlist. I know I’ll have to, and I want to, because I love my country, but I don’t love my country so much that I want him coming with me, and I know they won’t take him. The next day, war is declared and I enlist and Steve gets his first 4F and I’m so relieved for him that I don’t think to be scared for myself._

_The soldier has no years and he is sitting in the chair. He is violent because he feels fear, and fear is not a luxury that he is allowed. Control slaps him, bringing back some of the clarity, and the soldier asks about the man on the bridge. Control is evasive. The soldier speaks, and does not recognize his own voice. He says, “I knew him.”_

_I am twelve years old, and I’ve just pulled Stan Goldfarb off Steve, who’s a bloody mess on the ground. It takes two teachers to get me to stop beating on Stan, and one day he tells the story to a historian about how he got the scar above his chin from where his teeth went through._

_I’m twenty five years old and Tunisia is the warmest place I’ve ever been, even warmer than Brooklyn in July, and I have my eye to the sight of my Springfield. I’m watching a man who’s no older than me load a crate of munitions into a truck. I breathe in, I breathe out, and I pull the trigger. A crack in the air, a little pink mist, and he slumps to the ground. The first thing I think of is Steve, and knowing I’ll never be able to explain this to him._

_The soldier is without years and in South Africa and the heat does not bother him. Very little bothers him. He stands over a man with blond hair and blue eyes and for a moment he hesitates. He is not sure why. He shoots him anyways, and reports the hesitation to his handlers. They wipe him._

_I am twenty seven years old and I pick up Steve’s shield because we’re being fired on and Steve’s knocked down. I fire my gun and then all I see is a big blue flash. I’m thrown backwards._

_I am ten years old and watching the man behind the counter. When he turns his back to get something for Mrs. O’Malley, I slip the bottle into my pocket. I buy a single piece of candy, then run all the way to Steve’s. I give the bottle to Mrs. Rogers, and she sits down and cries. I’ve never seen a grown up cry like that, and I’m a little scared, but then she smiles and kisses my forehead and says in her beautiful lilting voice, “Let’s see if we can’t get some of this into Steven. How about that, Bucky?” And I smile and nod, and follow her into Steve’s room._

_I am nineteen years old and he has received the last rites two months before his mother will. I tell his ma that I want to say goodbye to him and she closes the door. I climb into bed with him, wrapping my arms around his cold, limp body, and I whisper, “You can’t do this. You can’t leave me alone, Stevie. I love you too goddamn much. Don’t leave me, buddy. Don’t leave me here.” I put my face against his shoulder and cry. The next day he wakes up and asks where we are in the Series._

_I am twenty seven years old and I’m thrown backwards. My hands grab onto the first thing they find, and it’s a railing. I’m dangling over the mountainside, and I see the metal coming apart. I think wildly about how in another life I would have been a welding inspector, and would have been really unimpressed with this work. I hear a clamor of metal on metal, and then Steve is climbing out after me._

_I am twenty four years old, and I can’t believe I’m saying goodbye to him like this. We’re in the middle of the World of Tomorrow, tarted up into the Stark Expo so it can stay open another year, and we’ve got dates and he’s just going to go, and this could be the last time I ever see him. I could die. Or he could die, because I’m not here watching over him. I hug him, insult him because he knows it’s the only way I have to tell him I love him, and then I walk away from him and it seems so fucking small._

_I am twenty two years old, and I’ve pulled a double shift. I fall onto our bed, so raw and exhausted that I don’t know how I even got home. Then Steve rolls over, and throws an arm across me. I fall asleep like that, sitting back against the wall, my hand on his head._

_I no longer have years and I’m going to kill him. I have my fist in the air and my head is full of knives and it’s cracking open and he’s my mission, I have to do this. I have to. Oh God, when did I become I? Then he tells me that he’s with me until the end of the line._

_I am twenty six years old, riding behind him on a motorcycle while a tank explodes behind us, and we’re laughing so hard I think I might be sick. I yell in his ear, “Aren’t you glad I didn’t win the war before you got here!” and he grins over his shoulder and I’ve never been so alive._

_I am twenty seven years old and Steve is climbing out after me. He’s yelling for me to give him my hand and what does he think I’m trying to do? I reach for him and he reaches for me and I’m sure he’ll catch me because I know him, I know he’ll catch me. He doesn’t and the rail gives and I fall._

_I no longer have years and he says he’s with me until the end of the line. Then he falls. I think I fell once too. I think I fell, and he was supposed to catch me._

_I am sixteen years old, kneeling on his kitchen floor, kissing his mouth, and I know I’ll never love anyone more._

_I am twenty seven years old and I am screaming. I am falling. He’s what I look at as I drop through open space, moving away, somehow the two of us being torn apart._

_I have no years, and he’s falling. I let go and fall too. I catch him._

_I am seven years old and he is six and it’s the day we meet._

_I walk him up the steps to his house, and he stops, looking sort of unhappy all of a sudden. I don’t know why. We talked all the way from my place, and I think he’s pretty keen. He’s funny and scrappy and we like a lot of the same books._

_Then I remember that he doesn’t ever really talk to anyone, and he doesn’t know what to do._

_So I say, “I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”_

_He pauses, then smiles. Really smiles for the first time since I met him. “See you in school.” He hops up the stairs. I wait until he gets inside. I’m smiling too._

_I think we’re going to be really good friends._


	32. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr: e-sebastian.tumblr.com (still can't get the link to work properly, so God bless copy and paste).

I glance back over my shoulder at the sound of the engine. Pickup. Vanity plate that says GITRDN. No thanks.

            I keep my head down and just put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the vehicle as it passes me on the highway, over the hill and disappearing into the blue sky. I walk down in the ditch, because I like the feeling of grass under my feet.

            There’s all kinds of things I like now. And plenty of time to figure it out, since there’s no mission.

            I like rocky road ice cream, plums, and guacamole. I like women who take what they want without apologies. I like when it’s the end of the day and I can pull my boots off. I like laying under the stars in my sleeping bag. I like buying spools of wire and making figurines out of it and giving them to people who make me smile. I even like the Sox, if only because fuck the Yankees.

            Things I don’t like are: people speaking or laughing loudly in restaurants, authority figures, small dogs, Arizona, when people hear my accent and ask sympathetically if I’m from New York, smoothies, and the fact that I’ve resorted to liking the Red Sox.

            That time with Steve awhile back really opened things up for me. Turned out to be quite the mess, but being around him always made my brain shake off the cobwebs. I feel more like myself.

            The problem is, though—my life has been defined by Steve Rogers.

            Not that that’s a bad thing. Nothing wrong with loving somebody that hard. And do I regret offing hundreds of thousands of people and destroying half of the city I grew up in, just to keep a wall between a giant head and the man I loved? No. It would be a bald faced lie to say I lose much sleep over the fact that I’ve killed more people as Bucky Barnes than the Winter Soldier ever did. I might be more of a person than I was a few years ago, but some things don’t just pop back into place after seven decades of conditioning, and I guess empathy is one of them. Honestly, I hear all the jingoism about enhanced villains being the new terror threat of the century, and people bandying about ‘Unity Makes Strength’ to remember Brooklyn, and my mind kind of glazes over, like I wasn’t even involved. I did it, but it would have happened no matter what.

            World War Three was avoided, though, and I guess that’s a positive. North Korea didn’t have a thing to show that it was anyone but them put that nuke in the air. They and Russia sniped back and forth for awhile, but the UN stepped in and North Korea’s gone back to its usual insane isolationist self. My guess is that Stark killed all of MODOK’s programs that would have released evidence that the US had any kind of hand in things. Another horror that didn’t go how MODOK wanted.

            I’m still not sure what MODOK had planned for me. He knew there was a good chance of me coming through the doors, but he was almost painfully easy to beat. Kind of anticlimactic, really. It could just be that he wanted Steve to suffer my death all over again while watching Brooklyn burn. But the man’s designation literally had the word ‘kill’ in it. Somehow I still think the end game was to kill Steve, no matter who came through that door. Or not. Whatever.

I dunno. I don’t think about it all that much. Like I said, I might be more of a person, but it’s not like I consider myself a fully-fledged member of the human race. I knew he was going to blow everything—it was a foregone conclusion. He wanted Steve to come in, lock them in that tomb together, and have Steve there while he pressed the button, knowing it was all for nothing. In the end, he was relatively predictable. I’m not. Because I might walk around in a human body, but I guess he forgot there’s metal underneath.

            And besides, I’ve never been afraid of fire.

            But Steve. It’s Steve I’m thinking about, doing my daily walk along the roadside. Not really sure where I am right now. Idaho? I think it’s one of the ones that start with an I.

            Steve’s fine. Of course Steve ended up fine. Did I leave him in a bit of a pickle? Sure. He almost bled to death and then he and Sam got arrested. But Stark’s doing all he can to keep Steve and Sam from ending back up on the Raft, and they’re being held at the Avengers’ compound right now, or so I hear from my sources when I check in. Sharon Carter’s apparently there a lot, which is fine by me, if it makes Steve happy. Sam gets to see his family pretty regular, so I imagine he’s happier. I’m glad they’re all on the same side again. That’s where they should be.

            It’s easier for us like this, Steve and I. I don’t know if he thinks I’m dead. I kind of doubt it. Sure, I left the mask behind in the rubble, but, c’mon—I survived a fall off a mountain when I only had one dose of serum. It’s not like being buried under Brooklyn was going to do me in. At this point, I’m not even sure if old age has the power to take me out. It’s not like I walked away without a scratch, but it was chaos and mass hysteria. Kind of the optimal conditions in which to disappear.

            Steve is back where he’s meant to be—amongst the heroes. And me, I’m away from where I can do the most damage. Namely, in his general vicinity. Doesn’t mean I don’t love him. I love him with all of this twisted, black heart that somehow still beats in my chest. But if you really mean it, loving somebody means doing what’s best for them.

            Steve is at his best when he has a team. He’s at his worst when he forgets it all for me.

            So here I am. On my own, really, for the first time as a real person, or a close enough approximation. Not trying to scrape my memories together, not on the run. Just living, doing as I please, not worrying about much, and being as normal as a mass murdering sociopath can be. That means walking, seeing as much of this beautiful country as I can. Never had the opportunity to before. I suppose, for me, it could be considered a vacation. I haven’t had one of those before. And I’m enjoying every moment. Eventually I’ll settle, and make things with my hands—maybe. Or maybe I’ll be a bad man for hire. Haven’t decided yet, and that’s okay too.  

            It’s a warm day, but I’ve certainly had worse. I’m more than fine in my jeans and light checkered shirt rolled up to my elbows, holding my straps to keep the backpack high on my shoulders. I’ve got combat boots on, because some things will just never change. I tried sneakers for two days, but those can quite gladly be added to the ‘things I don’t like’ list.

            Hope he’s okay. I can’t help but worry. I think about him every day. It’s not a matter of old habits dying hard. It’s a habit that will never die. He’ll always be the most important thing in my life. I loved him enough to almost kill him. I’ll carry him with me wherever I go, like always, and if he needs me, I’ll find my way back to him. For now, though—just me.

            And just me is doing fine.

            I hear another vehicle coming, and look back. A silvery blue car is coming up over the rolling hill. Hmm. A Civic. I like those. My eyes, sharp as ever, see a man and a woman, close to my age—whatever the hell that might be at this point.

            So I give my best ‘I dare you not to trust me’ smile over my shoulder, and stick out my left arm with its synthetic skin.

            I also like my synthetic skin. It was my payment from The Corporation for a job I did. They got me out of New York, and it’s not like I expected them to do it from the goodness of their hearts. It was really just another bite at the apple—them wanting to recruit me. When they brought up the gig in question and what they were willing to pay—well, let’s not kid ourselves. Only criminals and asshole fashion designers wear black gloves all the time, and I got sick of not wearing short sleeves.

            So here I am, with skin that looks and feels just like the real thing. Even has hairs and the nails look good. I appreciate that I never have to cut them. It’s sturdy as hell too. And really, I only had to kill one prime minister to get it, so I feel like it was a steal.

            It’s not that I’m working for The Corporation. Let’s say I freelanced. I think that’s how I might want to do things going forward. Have a foot in both worlds.

            The car passes me, and I see the woman in the passenger seat eyeing me, and I give her _the_ grin. The same grin my ma had. I got my old man’s looks, but the grin—most valuable thing my ma ever gave me.

            The Civic slows, then pulls over to the side of the road.

            Jogging slightly to catch up, I tilt my head as the woman lowers the window. She leans out of it, all brown skin and dyed white blond hair in a mess of glorious curls. “All right, handsome,” she says, “tell me why we should let you in the car.”

            I grimace dramatically, and reply, “That’s a tough one. I am a serial killer, after all.”

            She looks back. “The handsome hitch hiker’s a serial killer. Do we risk it?”

            “God no,” says the driver.

            “What’s in it for us, serial killer?” she asks. “I mean, besides a grisly death.”

            “Other than eternal infamy for being my victims?” I gesture to myself. “You get this all to yourselves.”

            Snapping her finger, she says, “Sold,” and drops back inside.

            The driver sighs, then unlocks the door. I smile, and toss my pack in the back, sliding in.

            The woman turns. “So if we’re already joking about you killing us, you got any dead baby jokes?”

            “Don’t mind her,” murmurs the driver. He’s a red head, slender, with a tattoo of geometric shapes peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. “She was just born that way.”

            As the car rolls forward, the woman with the white hair says, “Well, handsome—I’m Gwen, and that’s Truman.”

            “Truman?” I say. The movement he makes with his head telegraphs _yeah, go ahead, I’ve heard it all before_. “Like Capote or Harry?”

            He pauses a moment, then answers, “Like Harry, actually.”

            “Huh. Isn’t that a coincidence.” Settling in, I say, “I’m Grant. Like Ulysses S.”

            Gwen smiles devilishly, and purrs, “Match made in heaven.”

            Truman goes a little pink in the cheeks, and I remark, “Truman’s one of my favourites. Always thought he was a stand-up fella. Really, though, I’m a Roosevelt guy.”

            “I’m a Carter gal,” says Gwen, and I laugh. “Guinea worm! Come on. Man’s a legend. Okay—spill, handsome. You don’t look like a crazy person. What are you doing out there?”

            “Travelling. Relying on the kindness of strangers. When they’re this good looking, it’s definitely a benefit.”

            “Oh, we like you,” says Gwen. “We might have to keep you.”  

            Truman shakes his head a little, then takes a breath. “So—Grant.” He looks up at the rear-view mirror, and even from here, I can see that his blue eyes have flecks of green. “How far are you going?”

            I glance out the window. Country passing me by, green on the ground, sky all blue above. Highway rolling underneath. Nothing ahead but the unknown. No responsibilities, no orders, no past, only now and whatever might come.

            I smile, and raise my shoulders. “Guess until I hit the end of the line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are, folks.  
> First and foremost, to those of you who've commented, you are absolutely and utterly amazing. I came to this game pretty late because I've always been too apprehensive to show people my work. If I'd known that YOU would be out there, I wouldn't have been so afraid. You are stars, each and every one. Thank you so, so much for devoting your time, thought, and heart to this story. It means so much to me.  
> Second: I'm sure there are those people who are shaking their heads and saying, "No! You did not make me sit through 105000 words only for them not to get together." At the risk of alienating those readers, I said from the beginning that this story wouldn't necessarily have a happy or sad ending, but the right ending--for now. For Burn the World, this is the right ending.  
> This story was about Bucky, trying to find himself again, relearning what's true about himself, and I think the best place for him to end the story is alone. Content, but alone. And I am okay with that.  
> However--for the rest of you, who are livid with me and looking for a more firm resolution. I've been trying to calm people down for the last couple days by telling you that the next story in the MCU will be uploading in a few days, and I didn't want to say what it was because otherwise it would ruin the end of the story.  
> The final story I've written in this timeline that I started with Red and continued with Burn the World is called The Strong Man, and it's about Steve, 10-11 months after the events in Brooklyn. It's 90000 words, but only 15 chapters, so I won't be making you wait a month this time, only two weeks. It's got plenty of the harder elements of Burn the World, but it's softer in a lot of spots too, and it has a resolution that I think a lot of people are looking for.  
> I think Burn the World stands on its own. And if you think so too, and you're good with leaving this universe here, all I can say is thank you again. Thank you so very much.  
> The rest of you--I'll see you on Friday, and we'll do this one last time.


End file.
